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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26966821">Catch Me If You Can</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Hellcat/pseuds/Agent_Hellcat'>Agent_Hellcat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Defense Attorney Chuck Shurley, Defense Attorney Mara Daniels, Enemies to Lovers, Ex-nun Anna Milton, Fear of Rape, Fugitive Sam Wesson, Investigator Ellen Harvelle, Jessica Moore - Freeform, M/M, Police Chief Diana Ballard, Priest Castiel (Supernatural), Sam and Dean are not related, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, US Marshal Dean Winchester, US Marshal Jody Mills, US Marshal Victor Henriksen, brief memory of phone sex, description of murder, suicide by cop contemplated and discussed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:21:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>68,822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26966821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Hellcat/pseuds/Agent_Hellcat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Wesson has been wrongfully accused of murdering his college roommate. Convicted and sentenced to life without parole, he is on his way to prison when the transport van crashes, presenting him with a chance to escape. Desperate for freedom, he goes on the run. He vows that he will do whatever he has to do to stay out of prison. US Marshal Dean Winchester is on his trail. His job is simple: capture Sam and bring him back to prison. At least it started out as simple. But two unexpected things happen: he becomes attracted to the fugitive and he begins to suspect that Sam is innocent. In a clash between desire and duty, which side will win?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Wesson/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>191</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first attempt at a Supernatural fan fiction. It will be a multi chapter story. Sexy times will happen, but not just yet. I hope you like it. Comments welcome! Big thanks to Kassy Scarlett for providing valuable beta help. </p><p>I don't own these characters; I'm just playing with them. I have used some artistic license here with the details of prison, prisoner transport, and the workings of the US Marshals. I did some basic research and let my imagination fill in the gaps.The excellent Harrison Ford/Tommy Lee Jones movie "The Fugitive" was my inspiration, as well as the SPN episode "First Blood" from Season 12.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Being convicted of a murder you didn’t commit certainly revealed who your real friends were. This was the first thought in Sam Wesson’s mind as he sat shackled on a bench in the county jail, waiting for the prison transport van to arrive.</p><p>After his arrest, people had come out of the woodwork to assure him that this was just a terrible mistake, everyone knew he wasn’t a murderer, all he had to do was trust the system, blah blah blah. His friends weren’t allowed to visit him where he was being held prior to his trial <em>(bail was not an option with a murder charge hanging over him)</em>, but they still conveyed their best wishes through his girlfriend Jessica and his uncle Bobby, the only visitors he was permitted. They kept on reassuring him right up until the day, three months ago, when he heard the jury foreman say those dreaded words: “We find the defendant guilty.”</p><p>Suddenly there were no more reassurances. When he asked about his various friends, his uncle became embarrassed and evasive. After Sam had insisted on the truth, Bobby finally gave in and told him that his friends wouldn’t be visiting him once he was transferred to prison. The trip was too long, they were too busy, or they “just couldn’t bear to see Sam in prison.” These revelations hurt, but they were not completely unexpected. More painful was the letter from Sam’s favorite professor that called him a “lying, murdering scumbag.” Sam had ripped that letter to shreds and flushed it down the toilet, then lay on his bunk and turned his face to the wall for three hours, shaking silently as the tears spilled down his cheeks. You had to cry silently in jail, or the other inmates would think you were weak. And Sam had learned very quickly that you did <em>not</em> want to look weak in this place.</p><p>All this was bad, but the heaviest blow was still to come. About two months after his conviction, Jessica came to see him in the county jail where he awaited sentencing. One look at her tear-stained face told Sam what was coming next. His heart shattered as she tearfully confessed that this was the last time she would see him. She would not visit him after he was transferred to prison.</p><p>“Jess, <em>why</em>? You know I’m innocent!”</p><p>She refused to meet his eyes.</p><p>“Don’t you?”</p><p>“Sam, I don’t know what to think anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever knew you at all. A jury found you guilty. They wouldn’t have done that if there wasn’t something to it.” She wiped away tears. “All our time together, I never suspected that you were capable of – of that kind of violence.” She shuddered.</p><p>Sam was on the verge of tears himself. “Jess… Please. I didn’t do it! I swear on my mother’s grave! I’m going to fight this, and I’ll get the conviction overturned. It might take a couple of years, but I will get out. We can be together again, you just need to have some faith.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Sam. I – I don’t want to lead you on by pretending that everything’s going to be okay and we’re going to have a future together. Even if you did get out, we couldn’t go back to the way things were. I could never let you…touch me again. I’d always wonder if you really were guilty. If you might hurt me.”</p><p>Sam was openly crying now. He didn’t give a damn who saw him or what they would think.  “Jess. Please. Don’t walk away. I need you.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Sam. You have to let me go. It’s the best thing for both of us. I have to move on with my life.”</p><p>After he was returned to his cell, Sam had a serious debate with himself over whether he should just end it all now. He could probably hang himself with a sheet, or sharpen his toothbrush and stick it in his neck. He’d heard of such things happening, but he had never dreamed that he might be driven to such extremes. In the end, the only thing that stopped him from killing himself was the knowledge that it would destroy his uncle. The only person who continued to stick by him.</p><p>God bless the old man. Sam would have gone mad without his constant support. They had last seen each other a couple of days ago and his uncle had been as encouraging as always.</p><p>“You just hang in there, son,” he’d said. “We’ll find a way to get you out. Stay strong.”</p><p>“I will, Bobby.”</p><p>“Don’t let the bastards get you down. I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”</p><p>Sam could see that this ordeal had taken its toll on his uncle. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there a year ago and there were dark circles under his eyes. The sight made Sam’s heart ache. Guilt and grief threatened to overwhelm him.</p><p>He couldn’t even hug the old man. The guard had sternly warned them that no physical contact was allowed. Maybe it was just as well. If they had been able to hug, he would have broken down completely.</p><p>Bobby still believed in him. As long as he had that, Sam would continue to fight. He would get a new lawyer, he would appeal the conviction. Maybe he could even contact the Innocence Project. For the first time, he started to feel some hope. That lasted right up until the judge pronounced his sentence.</p><p>Life in prison. No possibility of parole.</p><p>His world crumbled. <em>Why didn’t they just execute me</em><em>?</em></p><p>It wasn’t enough to steal the rest of his life; the bastard had to deliver a little lecture. “Young man, it gives me no pleasure to deliver this sentence. Your case baffles and infuriates me. You had a golden future and you wantonly threw it all away. In all my years on the bench I have never seen such a brutal, senseless murder. Worst of all, you stole an innocent young man’s life in a cruel, depraved manner. Your callous disregard for life is chilling. You have forfeited your right to live among law-abiding people. If it were up to me, the state would bury you in a hole so deep you’d never see the sun again. May God have mercy on you.”</p><p>It took three bailiffs to hold him back as he charged the judge. “<em>I’m innocent! Listen to me</em><em>,</em><em> please just listen! This is all wrong! I didn’t </em><em>kill anybody</em><em>!</em>” He continued to scream and struggle as they dragged him out of the courtroom.</p><p>He threw one last look over his shoulder at Chuck Shurley, his useless lawyer, who stared at him as if he’d just woken up from a nap. He probably had.</p><p>
  <em>I should have represented myself. I was only pre-law but I could have done a better job!</em>
</p><p>Pre-law. That was a lifetime ago.</p><p>“Wesson!” A voice broke into his thoughts.</p><p>His head jerked up. “Yeah?”</p><p>The guard, Newman, stood a few feet away, clipboard in his hands. He glared impatiently at Sam. “Transport’s here. C’mon, c’mon, let’s go.”</p><p>He sighed and awkwardly stood up. The shackles around his wrists and ankles clanked and he shuffled forward as quickly as he could, obeying the guard’s impatient hand wave. He followed Newman outside, into the brisk September evening. Another guard named Gordon joined them. They gripped his arms a little more tightly than necessary, a silent warning not to give them any trouble. The extra force wasn’t necessary. Sam offered no resistance as the guards bundled him into the back of the van. After yesterday’s outburst, all the fight had gone out of him.</p><p>Newman paused outside the van’s open door. “Heard you caused a little ruckus in court yesterday,” he said, smirking. “Gonna be a good boy today, Sammy?”</p><p>“My name’s Sam,” he muttered.</p><p>“Sure, whatever. Just behave yourself. It’s about a two-hour ride, so you might as well relax. Hope you went potty, because we’re not stopping.” Newman looked past him at the other inmate in the van. “That goes for you too, Tiny.”</p><p>Seated on the bench across from Sam, Tiny offered him a huge grin. “Yes, sir.” His nickname was rather ironic, considering Tiny easily weighed three hundred pounds and was even taller than Sam’s 6’4” height. “Can you turn on the radio? I’d like to listen to some classic rock during the drive.”</p><p>“Shut up.” Newman slammed the door.</p><p>“Guess that’s a no.” Tiny winked at Sam.</p><p>Sam didn’t know how to respond. From what he’d seen in the county jail, the guy was a little crazy. His wink could mean anything from <em>“isn’t</em><em> Newman an asshole</em><em>?”</em> to <em>“I’m going to sodomize</em><em> you </em><em>later</em><em> tonight</em><em>.”</em></p><p>Sam decided it was best not to engage, so he just sat back and leaned his head against the partition separating the front and back parts of the van. Numbness began to spread through him. He welcomed it. He closed his eyes and the events of that awful night replayed in his mind.</p><p>
  <em>He came home from the library at around eight, as he did most nights. He was tired and looking forward to some microwave pizza followed by a phone call to Jess before turning in for the night. He felt a brief flicker of irritation when he saw that Chad had forgotten to lock the door again. This was the second time this week. They would have to talk about this.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At first things seemed normal in the dark, quiet apartment. Chad’s class schedule was different from his, and it was not unusual for him to be out late. Sam preferred it that way, to be honest. Lately he and Chad had been fighting a lot over everything from Chad’s chronic lateness with his share of the rent, to his tendency to leave his dirty clothes on the floor instead of putting them in the hamper.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sam was tired of the friction and he couldn’t wait until he graduated next June. He and Jessica had talked about finding a place together. They could both get jobs and he could go to law school at night. Money might be tight for a while but they would persevere. They had their whole lives ahead of them and they were in love. Marriage was a definite possibility somewhere down the line. Maybe they would even get a dog. Nothing seemed impossible right now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He snapped on the living room light, still daydreaming about the future.</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>At first the scene that confronted him in the living room didn’t make any sense. He stood in the doorway, frowning, for several seconds, until the reality hit him and his eyes popped open wide.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh my God!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Chad lay sprawled on the living room sofa like a doll that had carelessly been thrown there by a bored child. His head had been crushed to a bloody pulp. Sam felt sick at the sight of Chad’s brains leaking out of the hole in his shattered skull. Blood splattered the wall and splashed all over the couch. The living room looked like a scene from a horror movie. On the floor near the couch lay one of Chad’s high school baseball trophies. From where he stood Sam could see the blood and brain matter crusted on the base of the trophy. His stomach lurched and he had to turn away to keep from puking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He didn’t know how long he stood frozen, until it finally occurred to him that he ought to do something. He didn’t step into the living room, understanding that Chad was beyond help and that the crime scene must not be disturbed. Instead, he fished his phone out of his pocket. His hands shook uncontrollably as he dialed 911.</em>
</p><p>*       *       *</p><p>The trip was taking longer than expected. Traffic was heavy on the expressway and Gordon was growing impatient. “Fuck, this is taking forever,” he grumbled.</p><p>Newman snorted. “What’s the matter? Got a hot date?”</p><p>“No. Feel like crap. Probably coming down with something. I just want to drop off these two humps and go home. Get a steak and a nice cold beer, and then crash.”</p><p>“It’s all good. I’m sure Tiny and the princess back there aren’t in any hurry to get to their new home. Right, guys?”</p><p>Tiny laughed. “No, sir.”</p><p>Sam didn’t bother to reply. Newman always called him “princess” because of his mop of collar-length, wavy dark hair that often fell in his eyes. He thought it was hilarious. He liked to muse out loud about how that hair would give Sam’s new cellmate something to grab onto during their nightly “dates”.</p><p>Sam knew that the guard was trying to get a rise out of him, but those jibes still rattled him, made him think about what the future might hold. His chest felt tight with dread. How would he survive? Over the years people had used the word “pretty” to describe him, referring to his hair and his slim build and his hazel eyes. He had seen enough prison movies to give him a good idea of what the inmates might do to a guy who looked like him. He might have to fight them. He had been bullied as a child, at least until his growth spurt finally kicked in and he started working out. He kept in shape and could <em>probably</em> handle himself in a fight – he wasn’t entirely sure about this though because he hadn’t been in a serious altercation since middle school. A prison full of hardened criminals was very different from a playground full of tween boys.</p><p>Raised voices from the front of the van broke into his reverie. Sam raised his head and listened to Newman and Gordon arguing. The driver wanted to get off at the next exit and take a different route to the prison. He insisted it was faster. Newman wanted to keep to their regular route.</p><p>“We can take twenty minutes off the trip!” Gordon insisted.</p><p>“We’re halfway there. Just have to get through this little bit of traffic and it’s clear going.”</p><p>“I’m telling you, it’s quicker if we get off here!”</p><p>“Mom, Dad, are we there yet?” Called Tiny in a high, childlike voice. He was grinning like a maniac as he favored Sam with another wink.</p><p>“Shut up, Tiny,” Newman shot back.</p><p>Tiny cackled.</p><p>Gordon evidently won the argument because he got off at the next exit. Sam caught a glimpse of road through the small Plexiglas partition that separated the front and back parts of the van.</p><p>There were very few cars ahead of them. Sam wasn’t familiar with this part of the state. He knew they were heading north, away from the big urban center, way out into the hinterlands.</p><p>The van picked up more speed and Sam felt a heavy ball of dread settle into his stomach. Each mile they traveled brought him closer to his fate. Life in prison. No parole. He could appeal his guilty verdict, but he had to be realistic. Appeals took years and there was no guarantee that his would be successful. The tiny bit of hope he had built up was crushed under the weight of that thought. He was twenty-three years old and his life was over. He would never get married, have children, or realize his dream of becoming a lawyer. He would never make love to a woman again. The list of things he would never experience again seemed endless, and never mind the things he would never get to do for the first time – that was an entirely different list, even longer than the other one.</p><p>All this might – <em>might – </em>have been tolerable if he had been the one who fucked everything up. It would have been a hard pill to swallow, but Sam had always believed that if you screwed up, you took your lumps and didn’t complain. But this fucked up situation was in no way his fault. Some unknown asshole had killed his roommate and gotten away with it, leaving him to take the blame. Said asshole was still out there, enjoying his freedom, probably laughing about the patsy who got sent away forever for his crime.</p><p>Whoever said that life wasn’t fair probably had Sam Wesson in mind.</p><p>Once the cops started their so-called investigation, they had looked no further than Sam. And once they found out that he and Chad did not get along, that was all they needed to make Sam their one and only suspect. They kept focusing on the fights between him and Chad, as if some dirty underwear on the floor and a few late rent payments were enough to turn Sam into a homicidal maniac. They interrogated him for over an hour, harping on the same handful of points that became the core of the state’s circumstantial case against him. And at first he had engaged them, using his logical law student’s brain, trying to show them how weak those points were until he finally saw that they weren’t listening to him.</p><p>First they told him that there were no signs of forced entry. “Yeah, well sometimes Chad was so high he forgot to lock the door,” Sam answered. “Anyone could have just walked right in.” If Chad had passed out on the couch, he might not have awakened even when Psycho Killer started pounding away on him.</p><p>Then they told him there were no signs of burglary. “We were two broke college students,” Sam had replied. “Other than the Xbox and my old laptop, we didn’t have anything worth stealing.”</p><p>None of their neighbors had heard any screams or sounds of a struggle. Psycho Killer had entered and exited the apartment unnoticed. “This tells me that Chad knew his killer, Sam. What does it tell you?”</p><p>“Maybe it was a blitz attack.” Sam had heard that term used on an episode of Criminal Minds. It was the only explanation he could think of. He had to admit that it did sound weird. Then again, the first couple of blows had probably knocked Chad unconscious, leaving him unable to scream or struggle. But Sam had wisely kept those thoughts to himself. Saying them out loud would only have made him look more guilty.</p><p>Next, they told him that he had no real alibi. “I was at the library. I’m there every night. Ask anyone.”</p><p>“Well, Sam, we did ask,” the detective had said. “We asked the staff and the regular students who are there every night. And nobody remembers seeing you. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”</p><p>“Not really,” Sam had replied. “Midterms are coming. The place was packed.”</p><p>“Did you talk to anyone there?”</p><p>“No. I wasn’t there to socialize.”</p><p>They thought they had him on the alibi and on the history of tension between him and Chad. He could see it in their eyes. And it was at that point that he asked for a lawyer. Later, after his conviction, he would often think about that brief interrogation and kick himself for trying to explain things. He should have lawyered up from the jump.</p><p>“Flimsy” didn’t even begin to describe the prosecution’s case. There wasn’t a single piece of physical evidence to tie him to the crime. There were no fingerprints on the bloody trophy, so the killer had either wiped it clean or he had worn gloves. Sam’s clothes and sneakers from that night had been confiscated and tested for blood. Not a drop was found. Sam’s hair and fibers from his clothing had shown up on Chad’s body, but so what? Chad had probably picked them from the couch. His hair and fibers were probably all over Sam’s things too. They had been living in the same apartment for years, after all. This seemed so obvious to Sam that he almost laughed when he saw that this “evidence” was part of the prosecution’s case.</p><p>A competent defense attorney would have demolished their case. But Sam got Chuck Shurley, who, from the get-go, kept urging him to take a plea. Sam refused, insisting that he was innocent. During the trial, he kept trying to brainstorm with Shurley, suggesting questions for the witnesses, trying to help him refine his strategy. Shurley bore these suggestions with ill humor, finally snapping that Sam should leave the lawyering to real lawyers.</p><p>He refused to listen to any of Sam’s suggestions, and as the case progressed, Sam watched in horror as the attorney missed countless opportunities to punch holes in the prosecution’s case. He never brought up Chad’s tendency to leave the door unlocked, for example. And he never challenged the detective’s testimony about Sam’s fights with Chad. All he had to do was ask if there was evidence that Sam had ever threatened Chad, or if he had ever been violent with anyone. Sam gave him the names of a dozen friends who would have sworn truthfully that Sam didn’t have a violent bone in his body. But Shurley never followed up.</p><p>Bobby had been livid. “Are you even <em>trying</em> to win this goddam case?” he shouted.</p><p>“Mr. Singer, I know what I’m doing. Trust me. The jury will see that Sam is a person of good character who wouldn’t hurt anyone. But if you don’t want to roll the dice with the jury, Sam, you could always take a plea. I think I could sell the DA on manslaughter. Eight to twelve, it’s a lot better than twenty-five to life.”</p><p>“No plea,” said Sam. “I’m innocent. I won’t plead to something I didn’t do.”</p><p>Shurley shrugged. “Suit yourself.”</p><p>After the verdict, as Sam stood stunned, trembling all over, unable to believe what he had just heard, the bastard had clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Told you to take a plea, kid.”</p><p>Thank God the bailiff showed up at that moment to take him back to his cell, or Sam would have become a murderer for real.</p><p>*       *       *</p><p>The first sign that something was wrong came about ten minutes after they got off the expressway. “Gordon? Something wrong?” Newman sounded worried.</p><p>Sam glanced at the Plexiglas again but he couldn’t see what was going on in the front seat. He looked at Tiny who was fiddling with his handcuffs. He was wondering what the other man was doing when the van suddenly lurched to the right. Their bodies jolted violently. Newman let out a shout and then the van crashed. Metal crunched and glass shattered with the impact.</p><p>Sam and Tiny were thrown into the Plexiglas. Sam fell on his bench, groaning, while Tiny tumbled onto the floor of the van. He curled into a ball, arms jerking in funny little motions.</p><p>Sam opened his mouth to ask him if he was okay when Newman’s voice came from the front of the van. “Gordon? <em>Gordon</em><em>!</em>  Shit!”</p><p>There was a burst of static as Newman grabbed the van’s radio. “This is Newman from Prison Transport Van 2! I need an ambulance! There’s been an accident. I think Gordon had a heart attack. He – aw, shit, I think he’s dead!”</p><p>Sam barely paid attention as Newman gave the van’s location. He was busy evaluating his own condition. His body was sore but he didn’t seem to be seriously injured. He glanced at Tiny, who now seemed to be fumbling with his leg irons.</p><p>Wait a minute – <em>were his hands free</em><em>?</em>  What the fuck was happening?</p><p>“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”</p><p>Tiny’s head jerked up. “Hey!” he shouted. “I’m hurt! Need some help back here! Hey!”</p><p>“All right, hang on.” The passenger side door squealed as Newman wrenched it open. Footsteps crunched in the dirt as he came around to the back.</p><p>“Hurry up, Newman, I’m bleeding!” shouted Tiny. He scrambled back up onto his bench, showing surprising agility for such a huge man. He tossed his shackles onto the floor and grinned at Sam, showing a mouthful of teeth. That grin warned: <em>Don’t say a fucking word</em>.   .</p><p>Sam shrank back against the barrier. How in hell had he opened the cuffs?</p><p>A key scraped in the lock and Newman hauled open the door. “Ambulance is coming. Where are you hurt?”</p><p>Tiny launched himself at the guard, knocking him on his back in the dirt. Newman let out an “Oooooof!” as all three hundred plus pounds of Tiny landed on him. Under any other circumstances, it would have been comical.</p><p>What happened next was not comical. Tiny straddled Newman’s body, grabbed his head in both hands and gave it a vicious twist. Newman’s neck snapped with a sickening crack. Sam cried out.</p><p>“Yeah, tell me to shut up now, fuckhead,” grunted Tiny. He looked up at Sam and grinned. “I never liked that guy.”</p><p>Sam cowered against the partition. <em>This is it. I’m dead</em><em>.</em></p><p>Tiny pushed himself off Newman with a grunt and climbed back into the van, advancing toward Sam.</p><p>“Tiny, please.” Sam backed up as tight as he could against the partition, as if he could disappear into it.</p><p>Tiny bent down to where his discarded shackles lay on the floor. He picked up something and turned toward Sam. “Take it easy, Wesson. Hold out your hands. Hurry now. We don’t have much time.” His tone was surprisingly gentle.</p><p>Sam obeyed, staring up at Tiny with wide eyes. The larger inmate bent his head and stuck a tiny metal object into the lock of Sam’s handcuffs. A little twist and the cuffs clicked open.</p><p>Tiny grunted with satisfaction. “Here.” He put the tiny bit of metal in Sam’s hands. Sam looked down and saw that it was a twisted paper clip. “Unlock your legs and undo the belt. Then come out with me.”</p><p>Sam nodded and quickly did as the other man asked. The cuffs opened and Sam opened the belt around his waist that connected his handcuffs and leg irons. He gave a sigh of relief as the restraints fell away. He stood up, joints popping, and followed Tiny out of the van. It was fully dark now. Sam looked around, deliberately avoiding Newman’s body on the ground, and saw the crumpled front of the van smashed against the guardrails.</p><p>“Thank you, Tiny.” He regarded the other man warily. What kind of payment would the larger man expect in return for this favor?</p><p>“Don’t mention it, Wesson. Now, listen to me. The ambulance is coming, and probably a bunch of cops too. We’re out in the sticks and we maybe have fifteen minutes or so before anyone shows up.” Tiny looked at the road. Sam followed his gaze. Right now, there was no traffic but that could change any second.</p><p>“I’m gonna take off,” said Tiny. “Don’t follow me. Capiche?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Sam nodded. He rubbed his wrists where the metal had bit into them. “I – I’m not sure what to do now.”</p><p>Tiny laughed. “Hey, man, you can stick around if you want. You want to take credit for my murder, be my guest. That’ll make two on your record that you didn’t do.”</p><p>Sam frowned at him. “You know about my case?”</p><p>“Jailhouse gossip, man. I knew you didn’t kill your roommate. You’re not the type. Trust me, when it comes to murder, I’m an expert on the subject.”</p><p>For some reason that made Sam feel good. “Thanks, man.”</p><p>“No prob.”</p><p>“I had a crap lawyer. Chuck Shurley. Incompetent bastard screwed my case.” He wanted to spit at the mention of the man’s name.</p><p>Tiny snorted. “Incompetent, my ass. He sold you out, Wesson.”</p><p>Sam’s eyes widened. “<em>What</em><em>?!</em>”</p><p>“Yeah. Chuck Shurley is as crooked as the hind leg of a dog. He fixes cases if the price is right. He’ll suppress evidence, get witnesses to lie- it’s a nice racket.”</p><p>“Why hasn’t anyone stopped it?”</p><p>“He’s connected and protected. One of the families pulls his strings.”</p><p>“Families? You mean, the mob?”</p><p>“Yup. They’ve got at least one judge in their pocket too. Maybe even the cops, for all I know. The family can buy and sell anyone they want. Sometimes they want someone to get off, sometimes they want a patsy to take the fall. Chuckie, the judges, the cops – they all get paid to do the dirty work. Whole fucking system is rotten. Makes it hard for us honest criminals to get by, you know?” He chuckled.</p><p>“Your roomie must’ve pissed somebody off, Wesson. I’m guessing drugs. Something involving family business, anyway. They had him whacked and made you the patsy. Chuckie was happy to help as long as he got paid. You were just collateral damage.”</p><p>“I don’t fucking believe this!” He clenched his hands into fists. Now things made sense. Shurley’s insistence on pleading out. The missed opportunities to question witnesses. The open hostility to Sam’s suggestions. He struggled to remember how they had gotten Shurley’s name in the first place. Was it a recommendation from one of Bobby’s friends? Was that when the fix started? He wished he could ask the old man.</p><p>Sam had thought that his case couldn’t get any more fucked up. Incompetence was bad enough. This was so much worse.</p><p>Tiny shrugged. “Believe it or don’t believe it. All the same to me. I got to take off now. But listen, take a little advice from your pal Tiny, okay? Run. And don’t stop. Don’t go visiting your grandma or your girlfriend. And don’t try to be Harrison Ford and go looking for the real killer, okay? That shit only works in the movies. Forget about Shurley, you can’t do anything about him. Just log as many miles as you can. Maybe you can start over somewhere with a new identity. You’re smart, you’ll figure something out. And if they catch up to you, don’t let them take you. Don’t let them put you in a cage. You’re a good kid, Wesson. You’re not tough enough for prison.”</p><p>Sam nodded. “Guess I’m not.”</p><p>Tiny smiled at him. “Look at it this way. The universe screwed you over once, but maybe now it’s giving you a gift to make up for it. Take advantage of it.”</p><p>“I will.”</p><p>“Good luck, kid.” Tiny turned to go.</p><p>“Thanks, Tiny. Make good choices, okay?”</p><p>Tiny laughed. “Why start now?” He started to run down the shoulder of the highway, then headed into the woods.</p><p>Sam watched him go, then walked over to Newman’s body. The guard lay on the ground, head wrenched to the side, eyes wide open and already glazing over. There was no blood. It wasn’t messy, like Chad. The sight didn’t bother him at all, although maybe it should have. On a whim Sam bent down and began to search Newman’s pockets. He found the guard’s wallet and opened it. There was cash inside. Sam pulled it out, quickly counting the bills. Eighty seven dollars in varying denominations. He folded the bills and tucked them in his sock, dropping the wallet onto the guard’s chest.</p><p>“Sorry, Newman,” he muttered. “I need this more than you do.”</p><p>He turned and began to run in the opposite direction from the one Tiny had taken, past the smashed van. It was full dark now. He could see headlights in the distance and decided to duck into the woods before the driver could see him. He had to put a lot of miles between him and this location before the authorities started after him.</p><p>He picked up speed, his lean runner’s legs pumping rhythmically in an easy stride. Maybe Tiny was right and the universe had given him a gift. After everything he’d lost, it owed him. As for Tiny’s revelation about Chuck Shurley, he would think about that later. Now he had to put everything else out of his mind. Sam was very good at staying focused on the task at hand, and now he had the biggest one of his life.</p><p>
  <em>Run. Don’t stop.</em>
</p><p>No one would ever put him in a cage. Not if he could help it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>US Marshal Dean Winchester joins the hunt for Sam.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did some research on the US Marshals and criminal investigation in general, but I have taken some artistic license. Hope you like the chapter! Comments welcome. Continued thanks to Kassy Scarlet for beta help.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>US Marshal Dean Winchester stepped out of the car and looked around, frowning. His partner Jody Mills climbed out to join him. Together, they headed towards the prison transport van.</p><p>“Two dead Corrections officers and two escaped convicts,” Dean sighed. “Awesome.”</p><p>The wagon from the Medical Examiner’s Office, along with vehicles from the crime lab, were parked near the smashed prison van. As Dean and Jody approached, the coroner came up to meet them. Behind her, two attendants loaded a body bag into the back of the wagon.</p><p>“You must be the marshals,” she said. “I’m Dr. Glockner.”</p><p>“Dean Winchester. This is my partner, Jody Mills.”</p><p>“Good to see you. We’re just finishing up here.”</p><p>“What do we have, Doctor?” asked Jody. “Were the guards murdered?”</p><p>“Well, for Gordon Walker, the driver, my preliminary examination indicates a heart attack as the possible cause of death. He was probably dead before impact. I’ll need to do a full autopsy to be sure.”</p><p>“So his heart gives out, he loses control of the van, and smash,” said Dean.</p><p>“Pretty much. You’ll have my full report as soon as it’s available.”</p><p>“Great. And the other guard?”</p><p>“Fred Newman. Possible homicide. He was found there.” The doctor pointed at a patch of earth just outside the van’s open rear doors. “Again, I need to do the autopsy to be completely sure, but come look at this.”</p><p>The marshals followed her to the prison van, where the morgue attendants were getting ready to load Newman into a body bag. “Take a look at his neck,” said the doctor.</p><p>The marshals leaned in to get a closer look, taking care not to touch the body. “Crap,” said Jody. “Looks like somebody tried to twist his head off.”</p><p>“His neck was snapped. It looks like it was done manually.”</p><p>Dean whistled. They moved out of the way to let the attendants put Newman in the bag. Inside the van, a CSI tech moved around, carefully bagging two sets of discarded shackles.</p><p>“How’d they get out of the chains?” asked Jody.</p><p>Another CSI tech came over, holding up a plastic evidence bag. “With this. A paper clip.”</p><p>“Clever,” said Dean. “Indicates premeditation. They probably already planned to escape, and the crash just gave them their opportunity.”</p><p>“And this was left on the body,” the CSI tech said, holding up another plastic evidence bag. “His wallet. Credit cards and ID still there, but no cash.”</p><p>“It looks like they attacked Newman when he opened the doors to check on them,” said Dr. Glockner.</p><p>Dean shook his head. “And then they picked the corpse’s pocket. Poor sonuvabitch. No good deed goes unpunished, I guess.”</p><p>“I guess not,” said Dr. Glockner.</p><p>“Thank you, Doctor,” said Jody. “Can we get a rush on those autopsies?”</p><p>“Of course. They’re top of the list this morning.”</p><p>“We appreciate it,” said Dean. They handed her their cards, said their goodbyes and walked away as the attendants bundled Newman into the wagon and Glockner climbed in.</p><p>A tall, balding man in a navy blue suit approached them. “Marshals?” he said. “Detective Morgan, Twelfth Precinct. Guess we’ll be working together.”</p><p>Dean and Jody introduced themselves and shook hands with Morgan. “What can you tell us about the prisoners, Detective?” said Dean.</p><p>“Well, you should be getting their files, including mug shots, on your phones any second,” said Morgan. “But the quick and dirty version is this. The prisoners’ names are Clarence ‘Tiny’ Randall and Samuel Wesson. Both convicted murderers. Randall has a long rap sheet: robbery, assault, and two murders. He shot and killed two people in a 7-11 before cleaning out the register. Wesson had a clean record until he bludgeoned his roommate to death with a baseball trophy.”</p><p>“Two upstanding citizens,” said Dean. “Sounds like either one could have killed Newman.”</p><p>“My money’s on Randall. He’s a big dude. Strong and violent. Zero impulse control. Wesson is a puzzle. We never could figure him out. He was a college student. Pre-law. Very smart, by all accounts. Then he just blew his future all to hell when he killed his roommate. Nobody saw it coming.”</p><p>“About how long have they been on the run?” asked Jody.</p><p>“Newman called in the accident on the radio at eight thirty-two last night. The ambulance arrived about twenty minutes later, but by then Newman was dead and Randall and Wesson were in the wind.”</p><p>Dean consulted his watch. It read just after midnight. “So they’ve been on the run for a little over three hours. Let’s assume an average running speed of about 4 miles an hour, that gives them about a twelve mile head start, give or take.”</p><p>“We’ve set up roadblocks every five miles for a fifty mile radius,” said Morgan. “The train stations, bus stations and airports have been alerted.”</p><p>“Great,” said Jody. “How can we help?”</p><p>“We’ll need to talk to Randall and Wesson’s friends and family. Randall’s mother is in an assisted living facility. She has dementia, so I doubt she will be able to help us much. He also has a brother in the city, and an ex-wife who lives about an hour north of here. I can handle those interviews. Wesson has no family other than his uncle, Robert Singer. You might want to try talking to Singer. He’s, um, a difficult sort. I tried calling him about an hour ago. He told me to go to hell and hung up on me.”</p><p>Jody smiled at him. “Difficult people are our specialty, Detective. We’ll talk to him.”</p><p>“I appreciate it.” Morgan dug in his pocket. “Here’s my card. I’ll keep you posted on what I get in the interviews.”</p><p>Jody said, “And we’ll let you know what happens with Singer.”</p><p>Dean added, “Someone should also talk to the warden and other guards at the jail, see if Randall and Wesson were buddies. Maybe they planned this escape together. Want us to do that?”</p><p>“That would be a big help. We’re a little shorthanded at the moment.”</p><p>“No problem,” said Dean. “We’ll touch base in the morning after we’re done with the interviews, and figure out our next steps.”</p><p>“Sounds good. See you in the morning.” They shook hands again and Morgan walked off to his car.</p><p>Jody consulted her phone. “We have the files on the prisoners.”</p><p>Dean pulled his own phone out of his pocket and looked up the same email. Two files were attached, one for each prisoner. He opened the first one. “First up, Clarence ‘Tiny’ Randall. Huh. Not So Tiny is more like it. Six-seven, three hundred fifty-two pounds. Dude liked his donuts.”</p><p>“No fat-shaming, Dean.” Jody half-smiled. She and Dean had worked together for two years, and she was used to his wisecracks by now.</p><p>Dean studied Tiny’s mug shot. “Morgan wasn’t kidding. Big guy like that could probably snap someone’s neck pretty easily.”</p><p>Jody was studying the second file. “I wouldn’t rule out Wesson. He’s violent too.”</p><p>He pulled up Wesson’s file and scowled. “Twenty-three years old. Shit, he’s just a kid.”</p><p>“Don’t let those puppy dog eyes fool you. Remember, he bashed in his roommate’s skull.”</p><p>“Hm.” Wesson’s eyes captured Dean’s attention. This mug shot was an interesting contrast to the first one. While Tiny had stared coldly at the camera, as if daring the photographer to start something, Sam Wesson looked haunted, miserable. The face of someone who knew that he was facing a very bleak future. Too bad the photo was black and white. It would be nice to know what color his eyes were.</p><p>Whoa, where did <em>that</em> thought come from?</p><p>He mentally shook himself. “I wonder if they planned this escape together. Wesson was a college kid. Maybe he was the brains?”</p><p>Jody shrugged. “Possible. Or maybe Tiny was the dominant one and Wesson was in love with him. The Bonnie to his Clyde. Maybe they planned to run off into the sunset together.”</p><p>“Hm. Maybe.” Dean studied the mug shots again. Tiny’s brutish, piggy face glared out at him. He couldn’t see a clean cut young kid like Wesson falling for him. Anything was possible, but he hoped it wasn’t true.</p><p>Wait a minute. Why should he care about that? Maybe the puppy dog eyes were getting to him after all.</p><p>Jody pocketed her phone. “Think we should get the media involved?”</p><p>“I don’t know. An appeal to the media can work for us and against us. I’m sure a news story can bring us some tips, but we’ll also have the crackpots clogging up the phone lines and wasting a lot of our time.”</p><p>“We have two violent convicts on the run. We could use some tips from the public, crackpots or not.”</p><p>“True,” Dean admitted. “But right now there is a decent chance that they will try to slip back into their old lives, especially Tiny. If they’re not feeling any heat, they may get sloppy and we can trip them up.”</p><p>Jody nodded. “Tiny will probably go back to what he knows. If I gambled, I’d bet on him getting pinched first. Maybe for something petty like shoplifting. Wesson is a little harder to figure. Maybe the uncle will give us some ideas of where he might go. Provided he doesn’t tell us to go to hell.”</p><p>Dean put his phone away and they walked to their car. “Looks like we’ll have to impress upon Mr. Singer the importance of cooperating with the investigation.”</p><p>*            *            *</p><p>Bobby Singer was not happy to see them. The three of them sat at his kitchen table as Singer glared at them, arms folded. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in several days. His hair was uncombed and his eyes were red-rimmed and seemed to be sunk in their sockets.</p><p>Nobody spoke for a minute or two. Dean met his stare evenly. Finally he said, “Mr. Singer, we know this is difficult for you.”</p><p>“Ya think?” Singer said.</p><p>Dean blinked. He was used to hostility from a fugitive’s loved ones, but Singer seemed to be eager for a fight. “We don’t want to see Sam get hurt,” he said. “We just want to bring him in safely. That’s all.”</p><p>Singer’s eyes narrowed. “You want to lock up my nephew for the rest of his life for a crime he didn’t commit. That’s what you want to do.”</p><p>Jody said, “Mr. Singer, I know you’re upset, but there’s no grand conspiracy here. Sam received a fair trial and we ‒”</p><p>Singer’s fist crashed down on the table, hard enough to make his coffee cup jump. Dean and Jody flinched. Dean’s hand instinctively went inside his jacket, to his holstered sidearm.</p><p>“Don’t give me that crap!” Singer shouted. “Read the court transcript. That trial was anything <em>but</em> fair. The boy was railroaded and now you want me to help you finish the job.”</p><p>“Okay, let’s all calm down,” Dean soothed. “Maybe you don’t think so, Mr. Singer, but we are all on the same side here. A Corrections officer has already been murdered. We don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.”</p><p>“Oh, so now you want to pin another murder on him. This just keeps getting better and better.”</p><p>“That investigation is ongoing,” said Jody. “Your nephew escaped with another inmate and it’s not clear who killed the guard.”</p><p>“It’s pretty goddam clear to me. I’ve known Sam all his life. When he was ten years old, his parents died in a car crash, and ever since then, I raised him like he was my own son. I know him better than anyone on the planet. Better than <em>you</em> people. He is not a killer.”</p><p>“A jury said differently.”</p><p>“And juries <em>never</em> make mistakes. And lawyers <em>never</em> screw up cases.”</p><p>Dean thought it might be time to try another tactic. “Well, you saw him a couple days before he was due to be transferred. What was his mood like?”</p><p>“Oh, he was excited. He couldn’t wait to go to prison. It was like he was going to friggin Disneyland.” Singer shot him a look of pure contempt. “What kind of a stupid question is that? They teach you that in marshal school?”</p><p>Dean took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. He could feel the beginnings of a headache at his temples.</p><p>Jody jumped in to defuse the situation. “What my partner means is, did Sam give you any indication that he was planning to escape?”</p><p>“Even if he did, I wouldn’t tell you.”</p><p>“Sir, you have to tell us if you have any knowledge of what he was planning. Otherwise you’ll be arrested for aiding and abetting an escape.”</p><p>“Oh, so you want to lock me up too? You know what, if I could trade places with him, I’d take his sentence in a heartbeat. I’m getting close to the end of my run. A life sentence doesn’t scare me. I could do his time.”</p><p>“It doesn’t work that way, sir,” said Dean.</p><p>Singer pressed a hand to his eyes. “Why are we even wasting time with this?”</p><p>“Because we want this to end peacefully,” said Dean. “Listen to me, Mr. Singer. Sam has been on the run for over twelve hours now. He’s probably hungry and tired, and scared out of his mind. Maybe he didn’t plan to run. Maybe he panicked and just acted without thinking. But the longer he stays out there, the greater the chance that this ends badly for him.”</p><p>Singer glared at him, lips pressed tightly in a thin line.</p><p>“A Corrections officer is dead,” Jody said. “Some cops may want revenge for that. If they spot him, they might shoot first. We don’t want to see that happen.”</p><p>“So please,” said Dean. “Help us to help him. Can you think of anything he said that might have given you an idea of what he was planning? Maybe it didn’t even seem important at the time.”</p><p>Singer shook his head. “Only thing he had on his mind was appealing the conviction. He wasn’t talking about escape.”</p><p>“This was before the sentencing hearing, wasn’t it?” said Jody.</p><p>Singer just looked at her. The implication was clear. A sentence of life without parole could have changed Sam’s mind about escaping.</p><p>“Can you think of anyplace he might go to hide out?” asked Dean. “A friend he’d stay with. A special place he might go. A vacation spot, a fishing cabin, something like that.”</p><p>Singer let out a long sigh. “All his so-called ‘friends’ abandoned him. Even his girlfriend. As for places he might go… I’ve got nothing. He had school and he had his job at the college bookstore. He didn’t really take vacations. He didn’t even go on spring break. When he had time off, he either came to visit me or he stayed with that girl.” An edge of bitterness crept into his voice when he said <em>that</em> <em>girl</em>. As if he couldn’t even bear to say her name.</p><p>Dean reached into his pocket. “Here’s my card, Mr. Singer. My cell number is on the back. If Sam calls you, <em>please</em> get in touch with us right away. Doesn’t matter what time it is.” He laid the card on the table. Jody put her card beside his.</p><p>Singer shook his head. “He won’t call me. He’s too smart. He’ll probably figure that you know about me. I assume you’ve already tapped my phone.”</p><p>Dean saw no point in lying to the man. It would only insult his intelligence. “We are applying for a wiretap order. And you’re probably right, he may not call. But if he gets desperate enough, he might. And if he does, please convince him to turn himself in. It’s in his best interest.”</p><p>Singer didn’t respond, just lifted one shoulder in a shrug.</p><p>Dean and Jody looked at each other. A silent agreement passed between them; they had said all there was to say. “We’ll see ourselves out, sir,” said Jody.</p><p>Singer did not reply.</p><p>They stood up and walked out of the kitchen. Singer didn’t acknowledge their departure. As they walked out the door, Dean glanced back. Singer was still sitting, arms folded, staring at the table in front of him.</p><p>Once they were back in the car, Dean let out a long sigh. “That went well.”</p><p>“I feel bad for him,” said Jody. “His whole world is falling apart.”</p><p>“It’s the kid’s fault,” said Dean. “First he kills his roommate, then he pulls this dumb stunt.” He started the car.</p><p>“You think there’s anything to what the old man said?”</p><p>“What? That the kid was railroaded?” Dean pulled out of the parking space and headed down the street. “How many times have we heard family members say that? And it always turns out to be bullshit. The prisons are full of innocent people, to hear them tell it.”</p><p>“Yeah, except once in a while, one of them turns out to be innocent for real.”</p><p>They stopped at a light. He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “You getting soft on me, Mills?”</p><p>“I’m just saying, maybe it’s worth looking at the case. And you never know, it might not be bullshit. Cops do make mistakes, lawyers too. Singer seems to think that Wesson’s lawyer botched it.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m not saying the system is perfect. I’m willing to consider the idea that Wesson was wrongly convicted. But we’re not working for the defense, Jody. We still have to bring him in.”</p><p>“I know that. I’m talking about familiarizing ourselves with the case. We do that all the time. But this time, maybe we should try getting into his head. If we need to talk Wesson into giving up, doesn’t it make sense to know what we’re talking about? We told Singer that we don’t want to see anyone else get hurt. If we can convince Wesson that we’re on his side, he might surrender peacefully.”</p><p>Dean was silent for a few moments as he considered her words. Their conversation with Bobby Singer had clarified one thing: Wesson’s belief in his innocence was driving him. It influenced his decision to escape, as well as the direction he might take now that he was on the run. Jody’s argument had merit. He wasn’t surprised that she had made it. Jody liked to get into a suspect’s head and profile him, while Dean favored a more traditional “shoe-leather” style of investigation. Their approaches complemented each other and made for a successful partnership.</p><p>Finally, he nodded. “You make a good point. Let's get the court file and go over it. Try to pick it apart. Who knows? Maybe there is something to his claim of innocence.”</p><p>“I thought we weren’t working for the defense.” One corner of her mouth quirked upwards in a smirk.</p><p>Dean chuckled and shook his head. “Well, if it pays better, we could always switch sides.”</p><p>The more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea of studying the court file. Jody was right. Learning about the fugitive’s crime was an important part of the investigation. Even so, plowing through a thick file was not one of Dean’s favorite things to do. It could be tedious, like a homework assignment from hell. But this time, he was looking forward to it. He wanted to know more about this case.</p><p>He could understand a killer like Tiny Randall. Like Detective Morgan had said, he was a violent man with poor impulse control. A simple man driven by simple needs. There was no need to take a deep dive into his psyche. But Wesson was a different animal. Dean didn’t share Jody’s interest in psychological profiling, but every now and then, they encountered a criminal mind that intrigued him. Wesson was one of those criminals.</p><p>What could turn a straight-arrow college kid into a brutal killer? He wanted to learn the history of this crime. He wanted to know what the witnesses had to say. He was interested in the file because it might clarify some things about the case. That was the <em>only</em> reason. He refused to acknowledge the little thrill of anticipation he felt at the prospect of getting to know Sam Wesson better, or the faint hope that he really was innocent.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sam finds a potential ally in his quest to stay one step ahead of the law.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm going to stick with alternating POVs for now. The plan is to have a chapter for Sam, and the next for Dean, and so on until they eventually crash into each other.</p>
<p>I'm so happy that the story is getting a good reception. I hope you enjoy the ride. As always, much thanks to Kassy Scarlett for beta help and encouragement.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam staggered to a stop and grabbed a tree to keep his balance. Breath coming in short gasps, he flicked sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes and looked around. He was a little alarmed at how out of shape he actually was. In his pre-arrest days, he’d enjoyed going out for a run each morning. Sometimes, Jess would join him and they’d run together for a couple of miles. About two years ago, they’d entered a marathon together, finishing in just under 5 hours. He remembered how Jess had hugged him after crossing the finish line, how her face had lit up with joy at their shared accomplishment. That was one of his happiest memories.</p>
<p>He forced his thoughts away from Jess. She was part of his old life, along with school, friends, and all the simple pleasures he used to enjoy, including his daily run. He had lost so much in the past year.</p>
<p>After his arrest and confinement to the county jail, Sam had tried to stay in shape by exercising in his cell. One hundred pushups and sit-ups every morning and another hundred of each in the evening. Newman had teased him about it, but Sam never took the bait. What was it to Newman if he chose to exercise? He didn’t have anything else to do and it kept his mind off his situation.</p>
<p>When he started running from the site of the accident though, a pattern quickly established itself: full-out running for as long as he could, followed by a brief stop to catch his breath, then full-out running again. It was as if he had entered another marathon, one with no end in sight. This marathon was a little more difficult than the one from two years ago. He had to balance the need to make good time with the need to be careful. The ground was mostly even, although he had stumbled once or twice. The full moon provided the only light, and with the reduced visibility he could get hurt in so many ways. Trip over a root and fall down hard enough to break a bone. Get poked in the eye by a tree limb. Step in a hole and sprain his ankle.</p>
<p>He couldn’t afford to suffer any injury that would slow him down.</p>
<p>How long had he been running? It felt like hours but he had no way to be sure. Time ceased to have any meaning as soon as he’d escaped. He had last seen a clock at six forty-five last night, just as the transport van arrived. He’d hated that huge clock that hung on the wall opposite him, taunting him as it ticked the seconds of his life away, while he sat on a bench, chained and helpless.</p>
<p>Where was he? How much distance had he covered? Was dawn coming soon? It was frustrating not to have any of his bearings.</p>
<p>Sam let go of the tree and paced back and forth, trying to cool down and keep his leg muscles from cramping. The full moon beamed down at him, looking almost close enough to touch. Stars spread out against the dark blue sky like tiny gems spread across a piece of velvet. The night was still and silent, broken only by the chirping of crickets. A cool breeze stirred his hair, drying the sweat on his face. The air was fresh and clean, different from the way it smelled in the city. Under any other circumstances, this moment would be beautiful, even peaceful. But now, all he could think of was, how much time he had before daylight. More light would make it easier to see his path, but it would also increase his chances of encountering other people. What would he do if he ran into a birdwatcher or a hiker? Sam hated the thought, but he now had to view all people as potential threats. He wouldn’t harm anyone if he could help it, but if the other person tried to apprehend him, he might not have a choice.</p>
<p>His bladder suddenly announced an urgent need and he relieved himself against another tree. The initial excitement of his escape had worn off, and his muscles were beginning to ache now that the adrenaline rush had faded. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in several hours. He’d forced down some dinner at the jail last night, even though he had no appetite. He would need to eat soon, but how should he go about it? Hunting for roots and berries probably wasn’t a good idea. With his luck, he’d pick something that was poisonous.</p>
<p>
  <em>I should have joined the Boy Scouts when I was a kid.</em>
</p>
<p>Maybe he could try to find a gas station or a 7-11 up ahead. This sounded like a workable plan. Then an image popped into his brain, so strong that it felt like a premonition.</p>
<p><em>(</em><em>CNN plays on a flat screen TV near the checkout counter as Sam picks up a bottle of water and a sandwich. Just as he approaches the counter to pay for his purchases, his picture fills the screen, with a breaking news headline screaming: “MURDERER ESCAPES FROM JAIL”</em>. <em>Sam freezes as the cashier looks from the screen to him and recognition dawns on his face.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Best case scenario: the cashier grabs his phone and calls 911 as Sam drops everything and flees the store.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Worst case scenario: the cashier decides to play hero, whips out a gun from under the counter and blows Sam away.) </em>
</p>
<p>Goosebumps broke out on his flesh. Okay, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea after all.</p>
<p>Next question: Did his escape make the news? Chad’s murder had caused a minor sensation in the local press because of the gory nature of the crime. Sam’s arrest had also received some coverage because it fit a narrative: All-American boy commits gruesome murder. By the time his trial was over though, more sensational stories were dominating the news cycle. He guessed that the escape would generate some coverage because of the murdered Corrections officer. He had to assume that the news was out along with his name and picture. If so, he now had a target on his back. If he went out in public, he could be spotted at any moment. He imagined calls pouring in to the nearest police station, reporting his location.</p>
<p>His heart began to pound and this time it wasn’t due to physical exertion.</p>
<p>He looked down at his clothes. Blue denim jumpsuit, white undershirt, cheap white sneakers. There was no logo on the jumpsuit to mark it as a jail uniform. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks to whoever picked out these clothes. People might mistake the jumpsuit for a workman’s uniform, while bright orange or yellow would just scream <em>JAIL</em>. He would be able to wear these clothes for the short term, so finding a change of outfit was definitely #2 on his priority list, after getting something to eat. Maybe he could find a Goodwill store to buy some cheap pants and shirts. Perhaps a jacket and some underwear too.</p>
<p>But then the CNN scenario began to play in his mind again. Same problem, different store.</p>
<p>Stealing what he needed was out of the question. Sam had never stolen anything in his life. He didn’t have the finesse to pull it off without giving himself away. He didn’t go through all this just to get busted for shoplifting.</p>
<p>He had to do some serious thinking about his next moves. <em>C’mon, Sam. Use that genius brain of yours. </em>Food, change of clothing, the risk of injury, the possibility of being seen. And now his throat was dry, so he would have to find water too.</p>
<p>So many problems to solve. And towering above them all was the biggest question: What was he going to do? He needed an objective. He couldn’t just run blindly. Should he ignore Tiny’s advice and try to find the real killer? Or should he choose a specific destination and just run there?</p>
<p>His own thoughts threatened to overwhelm him. One mistake and he’d get caught. This time there would be no lucky accidents or helpful inmates cutting him loose. They’d probably chain him up in one of those Hannibal Lecter-style rigs, complete with face mask, before locking him in an armored car to bring him to prison. Accompanied by a fleet of police cars, no doubt. And after that? Maybe they’d put him in solitary confinement. No human contact, alone with his thoughts, nothing to pass the time. To Sam, that would be living death.</p>
<p>His chest constricted as panic took hold. A fresh film of sweat broke out on his forehead.</p>
<p>Sam closed his eyes and willed himself to be calm. <em>Breathe</em>. <em>In</em>. <em>Out</em>. If he gave in to panic, he would make a mistake and then he’d get caught for <em>sure</em>. When the panic slowly faded away, he opened his eyes again.</p>
<p>He would find the answers to his problems. But right now, his break was over. <em>Run.</em></p>
<p>He stretched his legs a few more times and took off again.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>The next time that Sam stopped, he knew he needed a longer rest. Otherwise, he was going to collapse. His muscles burned and fatigue was beginning to spread. His throat was so dry it was almost painful. The trees were a little thicker here. Maybe he could find some cover and lie down for a few minutes.</p>
<p>Sam scouted around and gathered up an armful of fallen leaves, dumping them into a pile underneath a tree. A few circuits of the immediate area yielded more leaves. He settled down into the pile, his joints popping, and gathered some of the leaves around him, covering as much of his body as possible. The ground was hard and very uncomfortable and dirt trickled inside on the top of his jumpsuit. The leaves provided no warmth and he could feel a chill from the night breeze seeping into his skin.</p>
<p>He lay back and closed his eyes. He just needed a few minutes to rest. The discomfort of his <em>bed</em> would probably keep him from falling asleep. Just a few minutes and he’d be able to continue.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>“Hey. Hey, buddy. Wake up.”</p>
<p>The voice was soft and insistent, cutting through his haze. Sam bolted upright, scattering leaves everywhere, and looked around, blinking wildly and breathing hard. Shit, he had dozed off! His brain felt heavy, as if it was wrapped in layers of wool.</p>
<p>A man stood over him, looking down at him with a curious mix of concern and amusement. “Are you okay?”</p>
<p>Sam stared up at him, unable to speak. His pulse thudded in his throat. <em>I have to get away!</em></p>
<p>Adrenaline spiked his system, chasing away the woolly feeling in his brain. He tried to push himself to his feet but his stiff, overtaxed muscles refused to cooperate and he gasped with pain.</p>
<p>The man held up his hands. “Easy. Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice was low, deep and calm, as if he was soothing a skittish horse.</p>
<p>Sam fell back, groaning. Was this how it ended? Getting caught for shoplifting was one thing, but getting caught because he fell asleep in the woods was ridiculous. <em>Stupid, stupid! Why did I fall asleep?</em></p>
<p>The man cocked his head to one side, studying Sam. He had dark hair and unnervingly bright blue eyes that seemed intent on seeing into Sam’s soul. “Kind of a strange place to bed down, friend. Are you lost?”</p>
<p>“I was tired. Needed to get some rest.”</p>
<p>“I could see that.” The other man’s eyes crinkled. “Far from home?”</p>
<p>Sam wiped his forehead with the back of a shaky hand. “I – don’t have a home.”</p>
<p>“I see. I can help you, if you want.”</p>
<p>“Yeah? How?” Sam slowly pushed himself up and, this time, was able to gain his footing. He groaned again and braced himself against a tree trunk. As soon as his legs felt steady enough, he would run.</p>
<p>“I can take you to my church. Get you some food. Are you hungry?”</p>
<p>“No.” Sam’s stomach chose that exact moment to let out a loud growl.</p>
<p>The blue-eyed man smiled. “Care to revise your answer?”</p>
<p>Sam hung his head. He couldn’t look at the other man. “Yes. I’m hungry.” His voice was barely audible.</p>
<p>“Then come with me. My church is not far from here. Just past this group of trees, in fact. You would have probably stumbled on it in a few minutes.”</p>
<p>Sam raised his head and for the first time really looked at the other man. He was a few inches shorter than Sam. He wore a navy blue windbreaker, black sweat pants and black sneakers. The jacket was half unzipped and Sam could see a black shirt with a white collar. “You’re a priest.”</p>
<p>The man nodded, smiling. “That’s right. Father Castiel Novak, at your service.”</p>
<p>“That’s an unusual name. Castiel.” Sam relaxed slightly. He hadn’t set foot in a church since his parents died, but when he was little, he had always attended Sunday Mass with them. Those were good memories.</p>
<p>“My parents named me after one of the angels. I guess they were hinting at a career path for me.” The priest chuckled. “My friends call me Cas, though. You can call me Cas if it makes you more comfortable.”</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>“Your turn. What’s your name, friend?”</p>
<p>“Sam.” The name came out without thinking. <em>Damn it.</em> Why hadn’t he picked an alias for himself?</p>
<p>Thankfully Cas didn’t ask for his last name. “Nice to meet you, Sam.” He held out his hand and Sam gingerly reached out and shook it.</p>
<p>“Nice to meet you too, Fath – I mean, Cas.” Sam looked around at their surroundings. “Uh, what are you doing out in the woods?”</p>
<p>“I might ask you the same question,” said Cas, smiling. “But never mind that for now. I like to take a little walk every morning. It helps me clear my mind and plan my day. The woods are peaceful and I like to think they help me feel closer to God.”</p>
<p>“Sounds nice.” Sam took a few steps away from the tree. His legs were steady and he felt more confident walking now. He brushed dirt from his clothes, feeling a little self-conscious. He glanced up at the lightening sky. Full sunrise was probably a few minutes away.</p>
<p>“It is nice,” Cas agreed. “But it’s not such a nice place to sleep. It’s chilly, for one thing. And not very comfortable. Once in a while, you even see a black bear out here, which can be a little scary.” He gestured at the cluster of trees. “It really isn’t far to my church. We can be there in five minutes. I’ll cook us breakfast. I’m not a gourmet chef, but I can scramble an egg. Do you like eggs?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I do.”</p>
<p>“Great. I’ll make coffee too. Sound good?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you’re doing me a favor. I like to have a little company in the morning.” Cas started walking and Sam fell into step beside him. He still wanted to run away, but the offer of food was too good to pass up. And he could really use a cup of coffee. Maybe he could slip away after he had eaten.</p>
<p>They walked in comfortable silence, leaves crunching under their feet. Before long, they reached a dirt path. As they followed the path, the trees thinned out, until they were walking down a small hill that led to a sidewalk. By now the sun had risen and people and cars were beginning to move about on the street.</p>
<p>“Welcome to Pleasantville, Sam,” said Cas as they stopped at a traffic light on the corner.</p>
<p>He had never heard of the town. “What part of the state are we in?”</p>
<p>“The northeast part. We’re about a hundred miles from the capital. Is that where you’re from?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” He hoped Cas wouldn’t ask too many questions. He didn’t have a cover story prepared. Yet another item for his to-do list.</p>
<p>Cas looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You’ve come a long way.”</p>
<p>“I guess I have.” <em>Not long enough.</em> The van must have traveled pretty far before the crash. Sam had probably covered about fifteen miles on foot, factoring in his conditioning, the uneven ground and frequent rest breaks.</p>
<p>“Well, my church is right across the street.” The light changed and Cas set off. Sam followed, eyes darting around nervously. He felt horribly exposed as they crossed the street. He kept expecting someone to yell, “There he is! The killer! Get him!”</p>
<p>The church was a medium sized building made of yellow bricks. A concrete path led to two large doors made of polished dark wood. A stained glass window on the side of the building depicted a man dressed in clerical garb with a miter atop his head, one hand upraised in a benediction and the other holding a bishop’s crook. Next to the church was a small two-story wood frame house with freshly painted white shutters. A wrought iron fence surrounded the buildings. A sign on the fence proclaimed <em>SAINT SWITHIN’S CHURCH, Fr. Castiel Novak, Pastor. </em></p>
<p>“Who is Saint Swithin? I’ve never heard of him.”</p>
<p>Cas smiled. “He was an English saint. That’s him in the stained glass window. In the ninth century, he was the bishop of Winchester, and now he’s best known as the patron saint of weather.”</p>
<p>“Weather? Really?” Sam couldn’t help smiling at the thought of weather having a saint. This was something his mother probably would have known. She used to have a little book that described all the saints and their feast days.</p>
<p>“Yep. Legend has it that if it rains on July fifteenth, his feast day, it will rain for forty consecutive days. I’ve been here for ten years and I’ve never seen that happen, but it still might. Are you Catholic, Sam?”</p>
<p>“I was raised Catholic. I haven’t been to church in a while.”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome to attend Mass today after breakfast, but you’re not obliged to.”</p>
<p>“Thank you. I, uh, will probably want to move on after breakfast.”</p>
<p>“That’s fine. No pressure.” Cas opened the gate and they went to the wooden house. They passed through a small front yard with neatly trimmed grass and bushes. A brass plate next to the door announced RECTORY. Cas unlocked the door and went inside. Sam followed, pausing first to check the street behind him. Nobody was looking at him. Good. He breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the door behind him.</p>
<p>“Home, sweet home,” announced Cas. He took off his windbreaker and hung it up in a small closet. He closed the closet door and gave Sam an appraising look. “You want to wash up? Bathroom is upstairs, second door on the left.”</p>
<p>Sam felt conscious of how he must look after spending all that time in the woods. “I think I will wash up. Thanks.”</p>
<p>“You go ahead. I’ll start breakfast.”</p>
<p>Sam slowly climbed the stairs. The house was silent and Sam wondered if Cas lived here alone. He hoped so. He didn’t want to deal with another person just now.</p>
<p>Once in the small bathroom, he flicked on the light and used the toilet. While washing his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror. There were small streaks of dirt on his face, and his hair lay limp and flat on his skull. He wrinkled his nose at the odor of his own sweat. He could probably use a shower, but didn’t want to push the limits of Cas’ hospitality. Best to just eat and then make a quick exit.</p>
<p>Sam cupped his hands and splashed some warm water on his face a couple of times. He combed his hair with wet fingers and slicked it back. He grabbed a towel to pat his face dry and then looked at his reflection again. Much better.</p>
<p>The smells of eggs cooking and coffee brewing floated up to him as he headed back downstairs. His stomach rumbled again. He followed the aroma into a kitchen that was barely big enough to fit a table with two chairs, a stove, a sink and a fridge. Cas bustled around the stove, moving a spatula through a skillet full of fluffy yellow eggs.</p>
<p>“Ah, there you are. We’re almost ready. Have a seat.”</p>
<p>“Can I help?” Sam sat down. Two plates and two empty mugs were set at the table. Two slices of buttered toast sat on each plate.</p>
<p>“Nope. Everything’s under control.” Cas grabbed a coffeepot from the stove and brought it to the table. “I keep asking the diocese for a programmable coffee maker, but they never listen. I guess a vow of poverty doesn’t allow for such things. This pot does the job well enough, I suppose.” He filled their mugs and replaced the pot on the stove. “Milk’s in the fridge if you want any.”</p>
<p>“No, black is fine.” Sam added some sugar and stirred his coffee, breathing in the rich aroma. He took a sip, closing his eyes in pleasure.</p>
<p>Cas brought the pan to the table, spooning a generous portion of scrambled eggs onto each plate. “How’s the coffee?”</p>
<p>“Best I’ve had in a while.” The swill served at the county jail didn’t compare.</p>
<p>“Glad to hear that.” Cas put the empty pan in the sink and then sat down. He folded his hands, bowed his head and said, “Lord, we thank you for what we are about to receive. Amen.”</p>
<p>Sam wasn’t sure if he should say Amen or not, so he kept quiet. Cas didn’t push him to join the prayer. He rubbed his hands together. “All right. Dig in.”</p>
<p>The first mouthful of egg was exquisite. It took all his self-control not to shovel the food into his mouth like a glutton. He forced himself to take small bites and chew each one thoroughly. Still, in spite of his effort to eat with some restraint, Sam cleaned most of his plate in a few minutes. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal this much since his arrest.</p>
<p>His belly was finally quiet and satisfied. A sense of well-being filled him. He had missed the simple pleasure of companionship. They hadn’t known each other long, but Sam liked the priest. Under different circumstances, they probably would have been friends. But he should move on once he finished his meal. Cas would turn him in if he knew the truth. At the very least, he would ask Sam to leave. He could imagine the condemnation in the priest’s eyes. That would be unbearable.</p>
<p>Cas broke the silence. “So, what brings you to our part of the world, Sam?”</p>
<p>Sam swallowed some coffee, instantly wary. “Just passing through,” he said.</p>
<p>“Hm.” Cas chewed his last bite of toast. “We don’t often get escaped convicts coming through here.”</p>
<p>Panic jolted him. He shoved his chair back, prepared to flee. “I, uh, I should go.”</p>
<p>Cas reached out a hand, but didn’t touch him. “Easy, Sam. Easy.”</p>
<p>Sam looked at him, wide-eyed. His heart raced. “No, I really have to go. Please, let me go.”</p>
<p>“No one’s going to hurt you, Sam. You’re safe. Finish your breakfast.” He used the same soothing tone he had used in the woods.</p>
<p>Sam stared down at the few bites of egg left on his plate. His stomach clenched. His breath came in short, harsh gasps. His hands shook. He knew he should do something, but his brain had completely vapor locked. <em>Caught. Oh God I’m caught! I should have known this was too good to be true!</em></p>
<p>“Sam. Look at me.”</p>
<p>With effort, he raised his eyes to meet the priest’s gaze. Cas wore the same kind smile he’d had all morning. “Please don’t be frightened. I’m not going to turn you in.”</p>
<p>Sam swallowed hard. He was trembling all over. “How did you know?” His voice was hoarse.</p>
<p>“I’ve worked with a prison ministry. I’m familiar with the inmate uniform. Plus, you were sleeping rough. That kind of gave it away.”</p>
<p>The memory of sleeping in the woods slapped Sam in the face. How far he had fallen. The shame of it. Everything crumbled inside him and a hot rush of tears flooded his eyes. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed in a way he hadn’t done since his parents died. His heart felt as if it was being crushed in a huge fist.</p>
<p>All the sorrow and stress of the last few days erupted from him: Jess turning her back on him, Bobby’s tired, sad face, the shock of receiving a life sentence, the awful cracking sound as Tiny snapped Newman’s neck, the revelations about his bastard of a lawyer. He wept great wrenching sobs for everything he had lost and the terrifying unknown that lay before him.</p>
<p>As if from a long distance away, he could hear Cas’ soft voice. “It’s all right, Sam. Let it out. I’m here for you.” The priest’s hand rested on his arm.</p>
<p>Eventually, the tears dried up and he pulled his hands away from his wet face. Cas handed him a paper napkin and he wiped his face and blew his nose. He felt completely spent.</p>
<p>He let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Cas gave him a puzzled look. “For what?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to do that. It’s – it’s been a rough couple of days.”</p>
<p>“Want to talk about it?”</p>
<p>Sam took another napkin and scrubbed his face again. “You don’t need to hear my problems.”</p>
<p>“It’s kind of my job, Sam.” Cas pointed to his priest’s collar.</p>
<p>Sam managed a smile. “I know. But… I’m a fugitive. You can go to jail just for giving me breakfast.”</p>
<p>“I’m not worried. Do I look worried?”</p>
<p>“You’re not?”</p>
<p>“<em>And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his life?</em> Matthew, chapter 6, verse 27.”</p>
<p>Sam sat back in his chair. He had no answer for that.</p>
<p>Cas took another sip of coffee. “What were you convicted of?”</p>
<p>Sam looked away. “Murder.”</p>
<p>Cas was silent.</p>
<p>“I didn’t do it.”</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>He looked back at the priest. “Okay? That’s all you have to say?”</p>
<p>“There’s nothing more to say. I believe you.”</p>
<p>“But we just met. You don’t know me.”</p>
<p>Cas shrugged. “I haven’t known you very long, but I have a good feeling about you. Don’t get me wrong, Sam. I may be a priest but I’m not naïve. I’ve dealt with some rough characters. I’ve been threatened a few times. I’ve been mugged at knifepoint. I know what people are capable of. And I’ve developed pretty good radar over the years. I don’t get a sense of violence from you. But can you do me a favor?”</p>
<p>“What kind of favor?”</p>
<p>“Tell me what happened. How did you get convicted if you’re innocent?”</p>
<p>Shit. It was the conversation with Jess all over again. “I knew it. You don’t believe me. Nobody does, except for my uncle.” He stood up from the table. “I should go. Thanks for the food.”</p>
<p>“Sam. Please stay. I misspoke.”</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“What I meant was, what happened with your case? Were you set up? Or did you just have a bad lawyer?”</p>
<p>Sam sat down again. “A little of both, I think.”</p>
<p>Cas was looking at him in a new way. As if he was reevaluating Sam. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”</p>
<p>“Help me? How?”</p>
<p>“I’ve helped people in, um, difficult situations. Maybe I can do the same for you. So please. Tell me everything.”</p>
<p>Sam reached for his mug and sipped the cooling coffee. “No offense, Cas, but the last person I trusted was my lawyer and, well…” He gestured as if to say, <em>Here I am</em>.</p>
<p>Cas smiled. “I’m not offended, Sam. But please believe me when I say that you can trust me. Ever hear of the priest-penitent privilege?”</p>
<p>“Sure. I can tell you anything and you can’t reveal it to the authorities.”</p>
<p>“That’s right. You’re completely safe here. And I won’t judge you, no matter what you tell me. You have my word.”</p>
<p>Sam relaxed in his seat. “All right, Cas.”</p>
<p>“Great. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>He told Cas everything, from the night of the murder up until the moment they met in the woods. It took surprisingly little time. He managed to keep from crying again, although he came close once or twice. Cas listened silently, his intense blue eyes studying Sam’s face. When Sam described Tiny’s revelations about Chuck Shurley, the priest’s eyebrows raised a little but he said nothing. He almost skipped over picking Newman’s pocket, but then he decided to mention it. He wanted to be completely honest with Cas. He was relieved to see no reproach in the priest’s expression.</p>
<p>When his story was over Sam rubbed his face with his hands and took a long drink of coffee. “That’s everything,” he said. “Cas, I know every convict says he didn’t do it, but I swear to you that I’m innocent.”</p>
<p>Cas drained the last of his coffee. “I do believe you, Sam. Your story is not unusual. I hear stories from time to time in my work with the prison ministry. Cases fixed. Innocent people wrongfully convicted. Crooked judges, cops, lawyers. The first time was about five years ago. I shrugged it off. Like you said, every convict says he’s innocent. But since then I’ve heard at least a dozen more stories, all similar. After a while I couldn’t ignore the truth. The system in this state is rotten to the core.”</p>
<p>“How do I clear my name?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, Sam.”</p>
<p>A bleak feeling washed over him. “So I have two choices. Turn myself in and rot in prison for the rest of my life ‒ or keep running.”</p>
<p>He sighed and wiped away a tear. “Cas, I’m so tired after just one day of this. I don’t know how long I can keep running. Is it even worth it? They’ll catch me sooner or later. But I can’t let them take me. I just can’t. I think I’d rather let them shoot me.” Sam swallowed hard. “Maybe I shouldn’t even wait for them to catch up with me. Maybe I should just end it right now.”</p>
<p>“You’re talking about suicide.” The priest’s eyes narrowed.</p>
<p>“I can’t see any other way out.”</p>
<p>“No!” Cas' tone was so sharp that Sam flinched.</p>
<p>The priest grabbed his arm. “Sam, I will not listen to you talk about killing yourself.”</p>
<p>“Look, Cas, I know you’re in the God business, but –”</p>
<p>“But nothing. I may be in the <em>‘God business’</em>, as you put it, but God is in the 'people business’. And I’ve seen a lot of amazing things happen when they logically shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t call them miracles, at least not in the traditional sense. But I am positive that God had a hand in them.”</p>
<p>“Come on, Cas. Are you really going to give me the <em>‘God works in mysterious ways’</em> speech? Save it for your Sunday sermon.”</p>
<p>“This isn’t a sermon. I’m suggesting that forces greater than ourselves are at work here. How else do you explain your friend Tiny?”</p>
<p>“He wasn’t my friend. We never spoke to each other until yesterday.”</p>
<p>“Exactly! Why did he unlock your cuffs? He had no reason to do that. You saw him kill a man. He could have killed you and eliminated a witness, but he didn’t. He freed you. He even gave you advice. If it wasn’t for him, you never would have known about what your lawyer was up to. You think he did that because he’s such a great guy?”</p>
<p>“Probably not.” Sam had to admit that the priest had a point. Tiny didn’t have to help him out. He could have killed Sam, or left him chained in the van to face the cops. He certainly didn’t have to tip him off about Chuck Shurley’s crooked activities.</p>
<p>“And one more thing. You just happened to nod off in the woods in the exact spot where I take my daily walk. You think that’s a coincidence? There are no coincidences, Sam.”</p>
<p>Sam couldn’t think of a response.</p>
<p>“Sam, I believe we were destined to meet. Please. Let me help you.”</p>
<p>“You mean you’ll help me find a new lawyer? What’s the point if the system is so corrupt?”</p>
<p>“A new lawyer is one option. But not the only one.”</p>
<p>“I don’t follow.”</p>
<p>“What I’m saying is, if the system is corrupt, then you have to subvert the system.” Cas looked at his watch. “I’ll have to go change for morning Mass in a few minutes, so I’ll give you the short version now and we’ll follow up after I return. Through my prison work, I’m in contact with… Let’s call it an underground network. We do what we can to help people who have been screwed by the system. People who are wrongfully convicted, political prisoners, women trying to escape domestic violence. I think the network can help you.”</p>
<p>“Help me run?”</p>
<p>“Yes. We have a series of safe houses that we use to hide people on the run. And I can introduce you to a lawyer who works with us. She hasn’t been compromised. She can look at your case while we protect you. You’d like her. A real warrior for justice.”</p>
<p>Sam frowned. “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Sam, you can’t do this alone. You don’t know what forces are being lined up against you. You have law enforcement on your trail, but what about the mob? If they framed you for Chad’s murder, that makes you a loose end. They may want to eliminate you.”</p>
<p>Sam threw up his hands. “Great. Just great! I didn’t have enough to worry about, Cas. Thanks for adding to the list.”</p>
<p>“You need to have a clear picture of the situation if you’re going to survive. And you need allies.” Cas looked at his watch again and stood up. “I’ve got to get ready for Mass. Come upstairs with me.”</p>
<p>Sam gave him a puzzled look but followed the priest.</p>
<p>When they reached the top of the stairs Cas stopped outside a room. “This is a spare bedroom. I don’t often have guests. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as it’s safe.”</p>
<p>“I really appreciate that, Cas.”</p>
<p>Cas opened the door. Like the kitchen, the bedroom was small and modestly furnished, with only a bed, a small dresser and a night table with a lamp. The bed was neatly made with plain white sheets and a red and black checked blanket. It looked comfortable.</p>
<p>Cas closed the window blinds. “I’ll be back in about ninety minutes. Try to get some rest. You’ll be safe here until I return. Don’t answer the door or the phone. Keep the lights off and the blinds drawn. I have to make a couple of stops after Mass but I won’t be long. I’ll find some fresh clothes for you in the donation bin. Give me your sizes before I leave. I should be able to find something that fits you.”</p>
<p>Tears filled Sam’s eyes. “That sounds great. And Cas?”</p>
<p>The priest turned to face him. “Yes, Sam?”</p>
<p>“Thank you. For believing me.”</p>
<p>Cas smiled. “Just don’t give up, okay?”</p>
<p>“I won’t.” He stepped forward and grabbed Cas in a bear hug. “I’ll keep fighting. I promise.”</p>
<p>The priest returned the embrace, patting Sam on the back. “And I’ll fight along with you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Saint Swithin was a real Catholic saint. I first heard about him when I was a little girl and my grandmother told me the story about how 40 days of rain would occur if it rained on his feast day. When I was thinking about a name for the church in this story, Saint Swithin popped into  my head. It seemed like a good choice. I went online to learn more about him and that was when I found out that he was the bishop of Winchester. After learning that, I had to use the name!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean and Jody continue their hunt for the fugitives.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Continued thanks to Kassy Scarlett for invaluable beta help and encouragement.</p><p>I did some research into investigative procedures, but I also took some liberties. </p><p>Thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments! So glad you're enjoying the story.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hunt for the fugitives was on its second day.</p><p>Detective Morgan handled the search for Tiny while Dean and Jody followed up leads on Sam Wesson. So far, nothing had come up at the checkpoints, and there had been no sightings at the bus station, train station or the airport. No one matching the descriptions of either man had turned up at the local hospitals or the morgue. The marshals were used to the slow progress. You had to put in the legwork and keep trying to shake something loose.</p><p>The autopsy results on Walker and Newman came back. Walker had suffered a massive heart attack, and death had occurred within minutes. Newman’s death had also been quick due to cervical fracture. Forensic tests were ongoing, but unless there was some DNA or other trace evidence on the body, they were unlikely to yield any clues as to which fugitive had been the killer.</p><p>The escape made the daily papers and the local television news, although the story had not reached the national level just yet. Tiny Randall and Sam Wesson’s mug shots were broadcast all through the tri-state area along with the details of their crimes. Dean and Jody scanned the stories and were relieved to see that nothing had leaked from their office. Victor Henriksen, their supervisor, hated leaks with a passion and any time he suspected that their office had been responsible, he started a tirade that could be heard three offices away. Any day they could avoid being yelled at by Henriksen was a good day.</p><p>Detective Morgan checked in to report his interviews with Tiny’s brother and ex-wife. He told Dean that as soon as he identified himself as a detective the brother had said, “Oh, fuck. What’s he done now?” After that, it was not surprising to learn that the two men hadn’t spoken to each other in over four years.</p><p>The ex-wife also had nothing to add. When Morgan asked if she had any idea where Tiny might go she replied, “Try the nearest strip joint.” She hadn’t spoken to Tiny since their divorce five years ago and had no interest in helping him now. Morgan reminded her that if Tiny turned up she had to report it to the authorities.</p><p>“After I kick him in the nuts first,” she said.</p><p>“Popular guy,” Dean said to Jody.</p><p>As Dean had feared, the crackpots duly chimed in with their <em>tips.</em> For some reason, self-proclaimed psychics flocked to the tip line. After fielding the third call in a row from yet another <em>psychic,</em> he’d had enough. He slammed down the phone. “Why the hell do they always say that they get a vision of the guy near a body of water? The earth is- what?- seventy percent water? That doesn’t exactly narrow it down!”</p><p>Henriksen finally told them to go ahead with their interviews and let the local cops handle the tips.</p><p>The marshals started their interviews at the jail. They learned that Tiny had a few buddies among the inmates, but the men claimed to have no knowledge of his escape plan or possible destinations. When asked about Sam Wesson, they had no useful information. One inmate grumbled, “College boy thought he was too good to talk to anyone. He either did pushups in his cell or sat and moped.” After getting similar responses from the guards, Dean and Jody went to see the warden.</p><p>Warden Dodd was still reeling from the double shock of the escape and losing Walker and Newman. “Gordon had a family history of heart disease, so it’s not too surprising that his ticker gave out. Newman, though. What an awful way to go. He had a wife and two kids.”</p><p>“We talked to the other guards,” said Jody. “They said that they never heard or saw any signs that Randall and Wesson were planning to run. Did you hear any rumors about escape plans? Any chance that they plotted together?”</p><p>Dodd sighed. “I’ve been wracking my brain thinking about everything that’s happened here over the past couple of weeks. We do a pretty good job of controlling the population here, and we keep track of what’s going on. Randall and Wesson weren’t friends. As far as I know, they never even spoke to each other. I don’t see how they conspired unless they’re both psychic. Wesson didn’t interact with any of the other inmates. He kept to himself. He talked to his uncle and his girlfriend when they came to visit and that was it. Randall was more sociable. He had a few friends here.”</p><p>“Yeah, we talked to them,” said Jody. “They said they didn’t know anything about an escape.”</p><p>“I doubt they would tell you even if they did know,” said Dodd.</p><p>He let out a deep sigh. “Look, I know we screwed up. We searched both of them before we shackled them, but we missed the paperclip. I don’t know how we missed it, but we did. That’s on me. The state is already investigating. I’ll probably be out of a job six months from now.”</p><p>“Someone’s head has to roll, I guess,” said Dean.</p><p>Dodd shrugged. “If it has to be my head, I accept that. The buck stops with me. But believe me, if we had heard even a hint that they were planning to run, we would have put a stop to it.”</p><p>“How did they behave while they were here?” asked Dean.</p><p>Dodd shrugged. “Like I said, Wesson kept to himself. With the guards, he was polite, respectful. Always said <em>Yes</em> <em>sir</em> and <em>No</em> <em>sir</em> when he was spoken to. You asked him to do something and he did it, no backtalk. Tiny never gave us any trouble either, but he always had this smirk, like he thought we were all morons. Sometimes he’d make a smartass remark, but that was as far as it went. He knew exactly how much he could get away with. He was always careful not to do anything you could write him up for.”</p><p>“So no disciplinary problems.”</p><p>“Well, there was one incident. Wesson flipped out on the day he was sentenced. When they brought him back from court, he was crying and screaming that he was innocent. Just kept yelling ‘<em>Please, you gotta believe me! I didn’t do it!’</em>”</p><p>Jody asked, “Did he attack anyone?”</p><p>“No. He struggled with the guards, but he didn’t get violent with them. And he calmed down once he was back in his cell. He just sat there and sulked until it was time to get him ready for transport. I thought he’d act up again once they came to put the shackles on him, but he just submitted. He had this weird, spaced-out look. Kind of creepy.”</p><p>
  <em>A sign that he was planning to run?</em>
</p><p>Jody asked, “How about Newman, the dead guard? Any friction there?”</p><p>“Newman.” Dodd smiled slightly and shook his head. “Gonna miss that guy. He could be a pain in the ass sometimes.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>“He was the kind of guy who thinks he’s funnier than he really is. Always making wisecracks. You know the type?”</p><p>“Actually, I do,” said Jody.</p><p>Dean turned to her with a raised eyebrow and she looked back at him, deadpan.</p><p>Dean cleared his throat and turned back to Dodd. “So. He make any of these wisecracks to Wesson or Tiny? Anything that might have pissed them off?”</p><p>Dodd shrugged. “He needled everyone, Marshal. Nobody took it personally.”</p><p>Dean would have argued that a snapped neck looked pretty personal to him, but he decided to keep that opinion to himself.</p><p>They left the jail feeling as though they were climbing a steep hill.</p><p>“Okay, so there was no conspiracy before they went into the van,” said Dean. “But one of them definitely had a plan. He twisted up a paperclip and hid it. If the van hadn’t crashed, he probably would have made up some excuse to get Walker to stop.”</p><p>“What if the collaboration was spontaneous?” suggested Jody. “One frees himself, and then the other decides he wants in. So the other guy frees him and then they both gang up on Newman. They didn’t have to conspire on the planning. Just the execution.” She grimaced at the unintended double meaning of that last word.</p><p>“That makes more sense than the jailhouse romance theory.” Dean had never felt comfortable with the suggestion that Wesson and Tiny were lovers. He wasn’t sure where this discomfort came from and he didn’t want to examine it too closely.</p><p>*            *            *</p><p>A call to Bobby Singer yielded a list of five people – Chris, Todd, Brady, Julie and Sarah – who were Wesson’s closest friends from school. They were the most likely to have an idea of where the fugitive might run to. Singer’s mood had not improved since yesterday but thankfully there was none of the tension that marked their previous conversation. He gave them the names and then repeated his earlier assertion that they had all dropped Wesson after the trial. Jody thanked him for the names and Singer hung up without replying.</p><p>The marshals spoke to Wesson’s friends one at a time in an interview room at their office. It didn’t take long to discover that these <em>close</em> friends were not close to Wesson at all. The same description cropped up in each interview: Wesson was a nice guy, very smart and funny, but a little shy and guarded. A great guy if you wanted to grab pizza and beer or shoot some pool, but he didn’t let people get too close. The one exception was his girlfriend Jessica.</p><p>“They were the ideal couple,” said Chris.</p><p>“Like something out of a magazine ad,” added Julie.</p><p>A pattern emerged in the accounts of their reactions to Wesson’s arrest. At first they were shocked, certain that it was a mistake. During the course of the trial, however, they came to believe the prosecution’s theory about his motive for killing Chad Robinson, his roommate. According to them he was always complaining about Chad’s slovenly habits and his drug use. He couldn’t wait till graduation when he could move out.</p><p>Sarah shrugged and said, “I guess Sam got tired of waiting.”</p><p>His escape was a surprise. It seemed reckless and out of character for Wesson, who had always appeared to be such a straight arrow (until Chad’s murder, of course). When Jody brought up the guard’s murder, his friends agreed that he could have done it. They suggested that since Wesson had already committed one murder, he would have had no scruples about killing someone else. This provided an opening for Dean to ask if they thought that there was anything to Wesson’s claim of innocence. He was surprised to hear that none of them believed it. Their responses ranged from “Doesn’t everyone say they’re innocent?” to “Well, a jury convicted him, so there must be something to it.”</p><p>They had no ideas about where he might go now that he was on the run. Nobody recalled hearing him mention a favorite place or a burning desire to visit any particular spot. “Jess would probably know,” was the consensus.</p><p>One thing became clear during the interviews: none of his friends would hide him or offer him any help if he asked.</p><p>“Are you kidding me?” said Todd. “That psycho belongs in jail.”</p><p>In light of the murders and his escape, Wesson’s quiet, guarded demeanor now took on a sinister aspect. It looked as if he had kept all kinds of dark secrets from everyone who thought they knew him. Brady, the last friend they talked to, best expressed this sentiment when he simply said, “Just goes to show that you never know about a guy, huh? Hope you catch him.”</p><p>Jody rolled her eyes at Dean as they left the office for their next interview. “Who needs enemies, huh? You can almost feel bad for the guy.” Dean nodded agreement. He did feel a little bad for Wesson. Not one friend had stuck by him after his conviction.</p><p>Their next stop was Jessica Moore, Wesson’s girlfriend. Ten seconds into the interview she was quick to inform them that she was his <em>ex</em>-girlfriend. She had no idea where he might run to and the mere suggestion that he might contact her left her visibly shaken. She couldn’t sit still on her living room couch. She kept fidgeting and pushing hair out of her face. Her eyes darted nervously around the room, as if she feared that Wesson might pop out of the shadows to attack her.</p><p>“I was in the middle of packing,” she said. She gestured at the large suitcase in the middle of the living room floor. “I haven’t been able to sleep since I heard he escaped. I’m so scared he might come after me. I’m going to stay with my parents until he’s caught.”</p><p>“I think that’s a good idea. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” Dean gave her his best reassuring smile. Privately, he thought that if she was planning on staying away until Wesson was captured, she might be in for a long wait. It was not unheard of for a fugitive to remain at large for months, or even years. He decided it wouldn’t be prudent to share that bit of information with Jessica.</p><p>“This whole thing – I just can’t believe it! Sam was always so sweet and gentle. Then he killed Chad, and now there’s <em>another</em> murder? My God! I never knew him at all.”</p><p>“Well, Miss Moore, we don’t know for sure that Sam killed the guard.”</p><p>Jody glanced at him, frowning.</p><p>“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? He bashed in Chad’s skull, right? He’s a violent psycho.” She shuddered and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “I used to think we’d get married someday. Boy, did I dodge a bullet.”</p><p>“So I take it you don’t believe that he’s innocent,” said Jody.</p><p>She made an irritated huffing sound. “He said he was. He begged me to believe him. But look at the facts. He and Chad fought a lot. He had no alibi. A jury wouldn’t have convicted him if they didn’t think he was guilty!”</p><p>“Well, it’s unlikely that he will bother you,” said Jody. “But if he does call, please remain calm. Try and convince him to turn himself in. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”</p><p>“I just want this to be over.” Jessica flashed wide frightened eyes at them. “You <em>will</em> catch him, won’t you?”</p><p>“We’re doing everything we can, Miss Moore,” said Dean.</p><p>Once they were back in the car, Jody turned to Dean. “What was that?”</p><p>Dean buckled himself into the passenger seat and looked at her, puzzled. “What was what?”</p><p>“<em>’We don’t know for sure that Sam killed the guard?</em>’”</p><p>“Well, we don’t.”</p><p>“It sounded like you were sticking up for him.” Jody started the car and pulled out.</p><p>“What? No. She thought she was sleeping with Ted Bundy. I was trying to calm her down, Jody.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure she feels a lot better now. ‘<em>Don’t worry, honey, your ex-boyfriend only murdered one guy</em>.’”</p><p>“I didn’t call her <em>honey</em>.”</p><p>“Okay, fine, you didn’t. But you were still sticking up for Wesson.”</p><p>Dean shrugged. “I’ve been listening all day to people convict him of this second murder when there’s no real evidence. I guess her attitude just put me off. She was a little quick to condemn him. That’s all.”</p><p>“You have to see it from her point of view, Dean. Her world has been turned upside down. He was the love of her life. She thought she knew him better than anyone. Then he’s convicted of a brutal murder and she has to accept the fact that she never knew him at all. And now, just when she’s starting to put it all behind her, he breaks out of jail and she’s scared he’ll come after her. Under the circumstances, it’s pretty easy for her to assume the worst about him.”</p><p>“Never looked at it that way.” Dean paused, considering. “But I get what you mean. Maybe I was a little quick to judge her.” He shrugged. “I guess I tend to see things in black and white.”</p><p>“That’s why you need me, Winchester. So you can see the big picture.”</p><p>Dean smiled. “I do appreciate that, Jody.”</p><p>There was a pause as they drove on for a few more blocks, then he said, “So, what do you think? Should we call on the lawyer? What was his name? Shurley.”</p><p>Jody frowned. “We can try, but I’m pretty sure that no matter what we ask him he’ll throw attorney-client privilege at us. We probably won’t learn anything useful from him.”</p><p>“Yeah. I doubt that Wesson will contact him anyway. His uncle seems to think that Shurley did a less than stellar job of representing the kid.”</p><p>Jody paused, considering. “His office is only about ten blocks from here. Let’s talk to him anyway, just to cross it off the list.”</p><p>*            *            *</p><p>Dean took an instant dislike to Chuck Shurley. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on. The man was polite and ingratiating. But something in his smile was irritating. It was a bit too wide and showed a few too many teeth, just this side of smarmy. He ushered them into his cluttered office and offered them coffee, which they declined. He settled in behind his desk, pushed a stack of papers out of the way, and folded his hands on the blotter.</p><p>“So, Marshals. I take it you’re here about Sam Wesson.”</p><p>“That’s right,” said Dean. “Has he called you?”</p><p>“I wish I could help you. But I haven’t spoken to him since he was sentenced.”</p><p>“I understand he caused some commotion in the courtroom.”</p><p>“He was a little… Surprised by the sentence. He should’ve expected it once he got convicted. The nature of the crime, the brutality of it… No way was the judge going easy on him. I told him to plead out during the trial, but he wouldn’t budge. A plea would have gotten him eight to twelve, but he rolled the dice with the jury. That’s the way it goes.” He shrugged.</p><p>That shrug irritated Dean even more. He didn’t trust himself to speak for a moment. Thankfully, Jody picked up the thread.</p><p>“He claimed he was innocent. Any thoughts?”</p><p>“Marshal Mills, I defended Sam to the best of my ability.”</p><p>“That wasn’t what I asked, sir.”</p><p>Shurley huffed. “I’m not paid to have opinions on innocence or guilt. I’m paid to defend my client.”</p><p>“Under the circumstances, maybe Sam ought to ask for a refund,” said Dean.</p><p>Shurley gave him a cold look. “He’s welcome to try, Marshal Winchester.”</p><p>“Any idea of where he might go now that he’s on the run?” Asked Jody.</p><p>“No clue. Sorry.”</p><p>“Would you tell us even if you did know?” Dean struggled to keep his dislike out of his voice. From the look Shurley gave him, he wasn’t entirely successful.</p><p>“Marshal, I’m sure you know that anything he may have told me is confidential.”</p><p>“Of course. But you have an obligation –”</p><p>“I’m aware of my obligations. If he calls me, I will tell him to turn himself in.” A beat of silence. “He won’t call me, though.”</p><p>“What makes you so sure?” Jody asked.</p><p>Shurley chuckled. “Twenty years of experience.”</p><p>“His uncle seems to think that you did a poor job,” said Dean.</p><p>“And where did he go to law school?” Shurley’s voice rose, became snappish. “Everybody’s an expert after the case is closed. Like I said, I defended Sam to the best of my ability.”</p><p>“Mr. Singer’s probably just upset that his nephew got convicted,” said Jody.</p><p>“And I get that. I feel for him. Really. I know that I’m not his favorite person.”</p><p>“You must be used to that by now,” said Dean. He offered the attorney a small smile.</p><p>Shurley met his gaze evenly. “Comes with the job. Sometimes you do your best and you lose anyway.”</p><p>Dean and Jody looked at each other and shared one of their moments of silent agreement. There was nothing to be gained here. They both rose and placed their cards on his desk. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Shurley. Please call us if he does get in touch.”</p><p>“Absolutely.” Shurley stood up and shook hands with them.</p><p>Once they were in the elevator, Jody let out a deep sigh. “I <em>really</em> hate defense attorneys.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Dean leaned against the wall and was quiet for a moment. Then he looked over at her. “Did it seem to you that he was kind of, I don’t know, <em>defensive</em>?”</p><p>Jody shrugged. “A little. Maybe he doesn’t like being reminded of his failures. I know I don’t.”</p><p>“Me neither.” Dean frowned. “I think we’ve gotten all we can from the interviews. You know, this kid is a puzzle. He has no other family besides his uncle, and all his friends have abandoned him. He has nowhere obvious to run to. He could be anywhere.”</p><p>“We’re going to need some luck to find a solid lead,” said Jody. “After we get back to the office, let’s check in with the cops.”</p><p>“Yeah, maybe they got a tip from someone besides a fake psychic.”</p><p>“And then we can start on the case file. We’ve heard other people’s opinions about the crime. Maybe it’s time to go to the source. Draw our own conclusions.”</p><p>Dean let out a huff as the elevator doors opened to let them out into the lobby. “Homework time. Yay. I’m going to need coffee first. Let’s hit Java Delight before we get back. I’m buying.”</p><p>“Well then, throw in a croissant for me.”</p><p>“Two coffees and a croissant, check. Ah, what the hell, life is short. I think I’ll get a glazed donut.”</p><p>Jody laughed. “Go for the gusto, Dean.”</p><p>*            *            *</p><p>Once they were sufficiently caffeinated, they made a quick call to Morgan. He reported that no viable tips had come in. He sounded tired and a little discouraged. Dean was beginning to empathize. He thanked Morgan, hung up and popped the last bite of donut into his mouth, savoring the sugary jolt.</p><p>He leaned back in his chair. “Okay,” he said. “Back to basics. The prosecution’s theory was that Wesson snapped after arguing with Robinson.”</p><p>Jody reached for the file. “Right. They fought a lot. Apparently, Robinson was a bit of a slob and he was always late with his share of the rent.”</p><p>“One of Wesson’s friends mentioned drug use.”</p><p>Jody flipped some pages. “Right here. Tox screen indicates that Robinson had cocaine and valium in his system.”</p><p>Dean made some notes on a legal pad. “No wonder they fought. Robinson would have been all over the place. He’d be jittery and edgy from the coke, then he’d need valium to smooth out the crash. And if he was feeding a serious habit, that didn’t leave much money for rent. More stress, more fights.” He glanced at Jody. “Does it say if they argued that night?”</p><p>Jody flipped through some more pages. “Not according to Wesson’s statement.  He said that he came home from the library and found the body. But nobody saw him there. So much for an alibi.”</p><p>“He said he came home just after eight?”</p><p>“Yeah. He called 911 at eight-twelve.”</p><p>Dean fished out the crime scene photos. “Damn. Gruesome scene.”</p><p>Jody nodded. “Wesson used one of Robinson’s trophies to bash his skull in. A lot of rage.”</p><p>“A lot of blood.” He studied the photo of Chad Robinson’s body sprawled on the bloodstained couch then set it aside. “Even if they did argue, it looks like overkill to me. Who gets that upset over late rent? Wesson was going to move out after graduation. That was only a few months away. Couldn’t he stick it out just a little while longer?”</p><p>“Maybe Robinson was high, said the wrong thing and set him off. Everybody has a breaking point. Maybe Wesson reached his.”</p><p>“Hm.” Something about the scene nagged at Dean, but he couldn’t quite get a handle on it. Well. It would come to him eventually.</p><p>Jody’s phone chirped. She looked at it and said, “Forensics. They have something on Newman.”</p><p>She opened her email and scanned it. “Huh. Remember the wallet left on Newman’s body? They found a print.”</p><p>“Oh, good.”</p><p>“Yeah, on the plastic pocket where he kept his driver’s license. An eight point thumbprint match.”</p><p>“Tiny?”</p><p>“No. Wesson.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes widened a little. “Really? I wasn’t expecting that.” He felt disappointed, as if Sam Wesson had let him down somehow.</p><p>“You don’t buy Wesson as the killer? The fingerprint shows that he at least touched the body.”</p><p>“I’m just wondering if he has the strength to snap a man’s neck.”</p><p>“He was strong enough to crush Robinson’s skull, Dean.”</p><p>“True. But still… Something doesn’t feel right.”</p><p>Jody looked at him for a long moment, appeared about to say something, then shut her mouth. Dean was relieved. He didn’t want her calling him out again for taking Wesson’s side.</p><p>He ran it through his brain, trying to make the pieces fit. Trying to picture Wesson as the killer. The prospect of escape would have energized him. The only thing standing between him and freedom was Newman. If he was desperate enough to run, then he would have been desperate enough to commit the murder.</p><p>Of course, this theory could also apply to Tiny Randall. He had just as much motive to kill Newman. Plus, he had the size and strength.</p><p>But Wesson was the one who had left the fingerprint. No evidence connected Tiny to the murder. Even so, Dean wasn’t convinced.</p><p>He wasn’t thinking rationally. He couldn’t explain it, even to himself. Gut feelings could sometimes play a role in a criminal investigation, but this feeling didn’t even qualify as a hunch. He was no rookie. After six years as a US Marshal, he knew better than to go against physical evidence. Henriksen’s blood pressure would soar at the mere suggestion of what Dean was thinking.</p><p>His gaze traveled to Wesson’s mug shot, at the sad, scared eyes staring back at him.</p><p>
  <em>Damn it, Sam. What did you do?</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sam and Cas discuss their strategy for evading the law. Cas reveals more about the network and the lawyer who works with them.</p>
<p>As always, my heartfelt thanks to Kassy Scarlett for beta help, and to everyone who left kudos and comments. I'm glad you're enjoying the ride!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A tap on the door roused him from a sound sleep. “Sam? Are you awake?”</p>
<p>Sam slowly opened his eyes and stared at an unfamiliar white tiled ceiling. He frowned. <em>This isn’t my cell. Where am I?</em></p>
<p>He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair as he looked around the room. He was in a regular bedroom, not a cramped cell. Nice firm mattress, not the hard bunk he’d slept on for the past year. Soft warm blanket, not the scratchy thin one he hated. He pushed off the covers and looked down at himself. He was clad in a plain white tee shirt and boxers, not the ugly denim jumpsuit.</p>
<p>
  <em>Definitely not jail.</em>
</p>
<p>“Sam?”</p>
<p>At last he recognized the voice. Father Cas.</p>
<p>The memories from the day before flooded back. Meeting the priest in the woods and coming home with him. Opening up to him about his ordeal. And finally, blessedly, Cas’ belief in his innocence.</p>
<p>Sam climbed out of bed and padded to the door, his bare feet whispering over the linoleum. He opened the door to reveal a smiling Cas. He held a bundle of towels under one arm.</p>
<p>“Good morning. Did you sleep well, Sam?”</p>
<p>Sam smiled at his new friend. “Hi, Cas. I slept great, thanks.”</p>
<p>“Glad to hear that. I’m going to make breakfast. You can shower if you like. I brought you some fresh towels.”</p>
<p>Sam accepted the towels. “Thank you. A shower sounds great.”</p>
<p>“Shampoo and toiletries are in the bathroom. Breakfast will be ready in about fifteen minutes. We can talk some more about your situation.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded. “Sounds good.”</p>
<p>“Okay. See you in a few.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Sam emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, feeling clean and refreshed. It was the best shower he’d had in over a year. The water pressure was miles better than what the jail had, and there was the added luxury of complete privacy. He had forgotten what it was like to be naked without a bunch of other men leering at him and yelling, <em>Hey pretty boy, </em>followed by a flurry of X-rated taunts about all the things they’d like to do to his ass and his mouth. The harassment never went further than that, but it always made him very nervous.</p>
<p>Back in the spare room, he opened the dresser drawer and pulled out some fresh clothes from the bundle Cas had brought back from the donation bin yesterday. A grey polo shirt and black sweatpants, along with clean tube socks and boxers. He was happy to find that the pants fit him perfectly. He was so tall that sometimes it was hard to find pants whose legs didn’t end an inch or two above his ankles.</p>
<p>He changed quickly and ran a comb through his damp hair. After putting on his white jail-issue sneakers, he appraised himself in the mirror above the dresser. The man who looked back at him seemed different, calmer, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He could hardly believe how his situation had changed in such a short period of time. Yesterday, he’d been exhausted, hungry and scared out of his mind. Today, he had a friend and ally in Cas, as well as a fighting chance to clear his name. It was a longshot, but it was better than what he had twenty-four hours ago.</p>
<p>Sam went downstairs to see Cas piling scrambled eggs, fried potatoes and toast onto plates. The clock on the wall read six forty-five a.m. Sunshine streamed through the kitchen window and birds chirped outside. A crisp fall breeze stirred the curtains.</p>
<p>The priest looked up. “Perfect timing.” As Sam sat down, Cas filled their mugs with coffee and then seated himself. He folded his hands and said grace. Sam didn’t feel comfortable enough to join in, so he just bowed his head until Cas said, “Amen.”</p>
<p>Cas dug into his food. “Did it feel weird to sleep in a normal bed?”</p>
<p>Sam sipped his coffee. “It was peaceful. A little strange. I never got a good night’s sleep at the jail. It was never completely quiet there. Doors were always slamming, or some guy would start yelling. And sometimes I’d have nightmares. About Chad.”</p>
<p>He stared down at his plate, remembering. “I’ll never forget how he looked on the couch. His head was all smashed in. There was so much blood.”</p>
<p>He shuddered and looked up at Cas. “I know it sounds terrible, but I hated him sometimes. He wasn’t a nice guy. He was rude. He was a slob. We were never going to be friends. It was just convenient for us to room together so we could share expenses. And in the beginning, everything was fine. We tolerated each other. It was only later when he started getting heavily into drugs that things got bad. But even with all the stress and the fighting, I never wanted him dead.”</p>
<p>“You must have been terrified when you found his body.”</p>
<p>“I was. And then when they accused <em>me</em> of doing it… It was like a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from.”</p>
<p>“I want to help end that nightmare for you.”</p>
<p>“I hope we can.” Sam smiled at him.</p>
<p>After they finished eating, Sam insisted on doing the dishes. “I can’t just take from you, Cas. I want to be useful.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Sam. I appreciate that. I’ll just read the paper.” Cas reached for the folded newspaper at his elbow while Sam filled the sink with warm water and dish soap and then added the dishes. It only took a few minutes to wash everything and put the dishes and cutlery into the drying rack.</p>
<p>“You can just leave everything to air-dry,” said Cas. “Come here, I want to show you something.”</p>
<p>Sam finished putting the dishes in the rack and then dried his hands. He came back to the table and sat down.</p>
<p>“This was probably inevitable,” said Cas. He opened the newspaper to the third page and showed it to Sam.</p>
<p>The headline blared at him: <em>HUNT FOR ESCAPED INMATES CONTINUES</em>.</p>
<p>Sam took a deep breath as a tight ball of dread formed in his gut. His hands shook slightly as he reached for the paper. He’d avoided looking at the news yesterday and it chilled him to think that people all over the state had been reading about him. Thousands of people were now on the lookout for him.</p>
<p>Mug shots of Sam and Tiny were plastered below the headline. It was surreal to see his own face staring back at him from the page.</p>
<p>He scowled. “I hate that photo.”</p>
<p>“Nobody looks good in a mug shot,” said Cas.</p>
<p>Sam nodded and skimmed the details of a story that he already knew so well. When he came to some new information he read aloud:</p>
<p>“<em>Randall and Wesson escaped together but are believed to have separated.</em> <em>Authorities are offering a reward of up to $5,000 apiece for information leading to the arrests of the escapees.”</em></p>
<p>He looked up at the priest. “Five thousand dollars? That’s how much my life is worth?” He snorted. “I don’t know if I should feel scared or insulted.” Shaking his head, he returned to the article and read:</p>
<p><em>“’Both Randall and Wesson are dangerous, violent criminals,’ said US Marshal Dean Winchester.’” </em>Sam raised an eyebrow at the marshal’s name but went on.<em> “‘They have already killed a Corrections officer and they pose a significant threat to the community. Anyone who sees these men is cautioned not to approach them. If you do see them, we advise you to contact the authorities immediately.’ Anyone with information can call the tipline at…”</em></p>
<p>Sam’s breathing quickened and his pulse pounded in his throat. “Cas, the US Marshals are involved.”</p>
<p>He looked at the priest with wide, scared eyes. “They’re blaming me for another murder! Is this <em>ever</em> going to stop?” His fists clenched helplessly.</p>
<p>“Sam. Panicking won’t solve anything,” Cas spoke in a low, soothing voice. “Breathe.”</p>
<p>“You’re right, you’re right.” He closed his eyes and forced himself to take deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.</p>
<p>“We need to make a plan. I have morning Mass in a few minutes, then I need to do some work in my office. I’ll come back here for lunch at about twelve and we’ll start working on a strategy.”</p>
<p>Sam opened his eyes and met the priest’s gaze. His hands relaxed from their clenched pose as his heart rate finally calmed down. “That sounds good, Cas.”</p>
<p>“Good. I’m going to change.” Cas gave his arm a friendly squeeze. His blue eyes fixed on Sam. “<em>Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you</em>. Deuteronomy, chapter 31, verse 6.”</p>
<p>Sam chuckled. “Did you memorize the entire Bible?”</p>
<p>“Big chunks of it. Not the whole thing.”</p>
<p>“I like that verse. It made me feel a lot better.” But part of him couldn’t help wondering where God had been on the night of the murder, or during the trial.</p>
<p>“Any time you need me to talk you off the ledge, I’ll have a verse for you.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Cas.” Sam glanced back at the newspaper story and reread the remarks from the US marshal.</p>
<p>“Marshal Winchester. Did your saint put him on the case?”</p>
<p>Cas laughed. “I’m pretty sure Saint Swithin sticks to weather.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Cas left for church a few minutes later. As before, he advised Sam to keep the blinds closed. “I hate to keep you cooped up, but I want to make sure no one sees you.”</p>
<p>He brought Sam into the living room. Like the other rooms in the house it was small and sparsely furnished, but cozy. The pale green walls were bare of decoration except for a small crucifix. A dark green sofa along with a matching easy chair sat along one wall, facing a television mounted on a plain wooden stand. A small wooden end table perched next to the sofa, its surface bare except for a lamp and a remote control.</p>
<p>A bookshelf along the opposite wall drew Sam’s attention like a magnet. Most of the books were about the Bible and theology, but there were also biographies of historical figures such as Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Pope John Paul II, as well as a few novels by Graham Greene, C.S. Lewis and GK Chesterton.</p>
<p>Cas noticed his interest in the books. “Feel free to read anything that catches your eye. If you have a hankering for a particular genre, I can always pop into the library and pick up a book for you. As long as it’s not too, uh, racy.” Cas chuckled.</p>
<p>“No porn, huh? Darn.” He grinned at the priest. “Seriously, though. Don’t go to any trouble on my account. I’ll read just about anything. I’ve always loved books. Didn’t get to do too much reading during the past year.”</p>
<p>“Great. Make yourself at home, Sam. If you want to watch TV, it should be okay as long as you keep the volume low. I have basic cable. No HBO or Showtime, sorry.” He clapped his hands together. “All right, then. I’m off to Mass. I’ll see you at around noon.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Cas. See you.”</p>
<p>As soon as the priest was gone, Sam studied the bookshelf. After some consideration, he picked out a Graham Greene novel and headed to the couch. He immediately became absorbed in the story and the world fell away. He sat there and read, getting up only for the occasional bathroom break, until the key rattled in the front door and Cas strolled in.</p>
<p>“I’m back, Sam.”</p>
<p>Sam shook himself and put the book down on the couch. He rubbed his eyes. “Hi. Is it noon already? I lost track of time.”</p>
<p>Cas hung up his windbreaker and entered the living room. “You did, huh?” He spotted the paperback and nodded. “<em>The Power And The Glory</em>. One of my favorites.”</p>
<p>“It sucked me right in. I’m already halfway through it.”</p>
<p>“The story of a fugitive priest on the run from an oppressive government. I can see how that would resonate with you. After you finish it, I’d love to hear your thoughts.” Cas rubbed his hands. “But how about some lunch? I have turkey and Swiss cheese in the fridge.”</p>
<p>Sam stood up and stretched. “Sounds good.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>As they munched turkey and cheese sandwiches and sipped Coke, they talked about a variety of topics. Cas was a big sports fan and before long the conversation focused on football and basketball. The two men were fans of different teams, and soon they were debating the merits of various players. Cas wasn’t above a little trash talking, and he soon had Sam laughing uproariously.</p>
<p>It was a relief to talk about something other than his troubles. For the first time in more than a year he felt like a normal person. Chad, Chuck Shurley, Tiny, Marshal Dean Winchester, the $5,000 reward – all of it faded into the background for a blessed few minutes. Cas was great company and Sam wished that they could have met under normal circumstances. He had never made friends easily. He was a little shy and this made it hard to let people in. But the priest was so kind and friendly, it was impossible not to bond with him. Sam didn’t know what the future held for him, but he hoped that they would remain friends.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, the period of normalcy had to end. When the meal was over, he helped Cas clear the table. Once again, he offered to do the dishes but Cas told him to leave them for later. They refilled their glasses and settled back in their chairs.</p>
<p>“I told you about the network and our safe houses,” said Cas. “Today, I’ll start making some calls to try and set up places for you to hide. This could take a little time. We have to find an available space and then we have to prepare it.”</p>
<p>“What kinds of spaces do you have?”</p>
<p>“We have one member who is a real estate agent and uses her empty properties to house people. Another man owns a warehouse. A few others have spare rooms or basements. They’re not luxury accommodations, I’m afraid.”</p>
<p>Sam shrugged. “I’m not really in a position to complain.”</p>
<p>“I’m not going to lie to you, Sam. This path won’t be easy. The law is actively looking for you. We don’t know what the mob is doing, but we have to assume the worst. The public knows that you’re at large. They know what you look like. And that reward gives them an incentive to turn you in.”</p>
<p>“Pick up a phone and win five grand,” Sam huffed a laugh. “It’s like a freakin’ radio contest.”</p>
<p>“You need to prepare yourself mentally for what lies ahead. We have to stay one step ahead of everyone. Keep only what you can carry in one shopping bag, because you have to be ready to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. We’ll move you during the night. It’s safer that way.”</p>
<p>Cas appraised him. “You’re pretty tall, so you stand out in a crowd. Nothing you can do to change that, but you can do other things to alter your appearance. Maybe cut or dye your hair?”</p>
<p>Sam scowled at the thought of changing his hair.</p>
<p>Cas chuckled. “Just a suggestion.”</p>
<p>An idea popped into Sam’s head. During his incarceration, he was able to shave on a semi-regular basis with a small “anti-shank” razor whose blade was deliberately short and bendy so that it couldn’t be used as a weapon. He hadn’t shaved since his escape. He ran his fingers over the stubble on his cheeks. “Maybe I could grow a beard? Would that be a big enough change?”</p>
<p>“It might. And you can always wear a baseball cap or a hoodie when we move you. During the daytime you’ll need to stay indoors and keep away from the windows. Your movements will have to be restricted for your own good. You might start to feel like you’re in jail again.”</p>
<p>“Trust me, Cas. Nothing is as bad as jail.”</p>
<p>“As long as you keep that in mind, you’ll manage just fine. When we have you settled, I’ll reach out to the lawyer. Her name is Mara Daniels. We’ve known each other for years. Her firm does extensive work with the wrongfully convicted. I can ask her to look into your case and see what your options are.”</p>
<p>Sam took a sip of Coke. “How successful is she?” If he was going to put his fate into the hands of a stranger, then he had a right to know if she was good at her job.</p>
<p>“In the years that I’ve known her, she’s personally filed five appeals. She was able to get three convictions overturned and those three defendants have been completely exonerated. So I’d say your chances are pretty good, considering how corrupt the establishment can be. While Mara works with the law, we’ll use the safe house system to hide you from anyone who might be hunting you.”</p>
<p>Cas swirled the ice in his glass. “We have to be careful with Mara. Anything you say to her would be confidential, but we can’t ask her to be actively involved in hiding you. We can’t risk getting her disbarred. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”</p>
<p>“No, I don’t want that.” He paused, thinking. “Tell me more about the network. How long has it been around?”</p>
<p>“It’s existed in various forms for a couple of decades. In the beginning, its mission was to help women escape domestic violence, although in recent years we’ve branched out to help undocumented immigrants and other disadvantaged people. We’ve never helped a fugitive, though. You’re the first.”</p>
<p>“Someone has to be the first, I guess. Might as well be me.” Sam smiled. “How’d you get started with this?”</p>
<p>“That’s a story for another time. For now, let’s just say that a dear friend of mine was in a bad situation, and the establishment chewed her up and spat her out. I failed her because I got too caught up in following the rules. Society’s rules, the church’s rules. After I lost her, I decided that helping people was going to come first, never mind the rules.”</p>
<p>Cas drank some more Coke. “I wanted to do something, so I started asking questions. Eventually someone led me to the network. And the next time I met a woman who was in a bad situation, I gave her a name and a number. She was desperate, so she called the number and that person brought her to a safe place, and the next person brought her to another safe place, and so on. Until she was out of danger. That was how I got started, and I’ve been involved ever since.”</p>
<p>Sam toyed with his glass. “You talked about protecting your lawyer friend. But what about you, Cas? Why do you stick your neck out? You can get into a lot of trouble. You’re harboring me and helping me avoid the cops. You can go to jail for that.”</p>
<p>The priest shrugged. “Jail doesn’t scare me. It’s just another place where men need spiritual help.”</p>
<p>“I thought priests were supposed to believe in obedience.”</p>
<p>“Obedience to <em>God</em>. Not the establishment. You’d be surprised at how often those two entities come into conflict with each other. The establishment doesn’t always protect the innocent. Sometimes it even goes out of its way to hurt them. And when the establishment comes into conflict with God’s law, I’m going to choose God’s law every time. Sometimes that means doing something illegal. But if the cause is just, it’s worth the risk.”</p>
<p>Sam looked at the priest with something like awe. “This is personal for you, isn’t it? You get some satisfaction from doing it.”</p>
<p>“You’re right, it’s personal. I couldn’t help my friend but I can make a difference for others. And I get a certain spiteful satisfaction in giving the finger to the powers that be. It’s a sin, I know, but I can’t seem to give it up.” He gave another shrug, this time with a half-smile.</p>
<p>“How do you keep from getting caught?”</p>
<p>“Members only know the name of the next person in the chain. And our, um, <em>guests</em> don’t know the members’ real names, so even if someone gets arrested they can’t reveal much. We communicate with burner phones and destroy them after using them. We don’t use email or texts. Nothing that can be traced. We speak in code on the phone. Sometimes we’ll even use dead drops.”</p>
<p>“Sounds like a spy movie.”</p>
<p>Cas smiled. “I do enjoy a good thriller. But this is all real. If the worst happens and you’re captured, you won’t be able to give up anything useful. You won’t know anyone’s real name. Except for my name, of course. But as I said, I’m not afraid of going to jail. I don’t have that much to lose. But the others have careers, families. They need to be protected. Otherwise the powers that be will crush them.”</p>
<p>“If they catch me, I won’t talk. I won’t even tell them your name. You have my word, Cas.”</p>
<p>“I know you won’t betray us, Sam.” Cas finished his drink and wiped his lips with a napkin. “And I’ll make a promise to you too. If Mara can’t help us and it looks like the law is closing in, I’ll personally drive you out of the state and take you someplace safe.”</p>
<p>Sam didn’t know what to say. His mouth dropped open and then closed again. His vision blurred against a sudden hot rush of tears. Finally he whispered, “You would do that for me?”</p>
<p>“Of course I would. I can’t stand by and watch the establishment crush you.”</p>
<p>Sam grabbed a napkin and wiped his eyes. “I don’t know what to say. You – you’re an amazing friend, Cas.”</p>
<p>“I just want to help right the wrong that was done to you. The establishment failed badly when it should have protected you.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded. “It failed Chad, too. He hasn’t gotten any justice. The killer is still out there, enjoying his life.” He sighed. “There are no winners here.”</p>
<p>“No, all the wrong people won. Starting with your lawyer.” Cas sighed. “The killer might never be caught. And if your fellow inmate was right about the mob’s involvement, they might never be caught either.”</p>
<p>“But what about Shurley? If we can prove that he’s crooked, it can help my case, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>Cas nodded. “It couldn’t hurt. Maybe Mara knows something about him. I’ll ask her. If we can’t reach the real killer or the mob, maybe we can get at Shurley.”</p>
<p>Sam scowled and drained his glass. The ice had melted and the soda was room temperature by now, but he still needed the sugar boost. “I want to take him down almost as much as I want to be cleared.”</p>
<p>“Maybe those two goals aren’t mutually exclusive.”</p>
<p>Sam pushed his glass away and sat back in his chair. “Cas, how can I ever repay you for everything you’ve done for me?”</p>
<p>The priest gave him a kind smile. “After this is all over – and it <em>will</em> be over someday, Sam – you can repay me by helping someone else who’s in trouble.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded. “I’ll do that.” Maybe Cas’ brand of activism wasn’t for him, but he liked the idea of helping another innocent person who had gotten a raw deal from the justice system.</p>
<p>He wanted to share Cas’ belief that this ordeal would end one day. He hoped it would happen soon. He wanted his life back, including his dream of becoming a lawyer. Before this horror show began, he hadn’t given much thought to what sort of law he would practice once he passed the bar. He was sure that a cushy corporate job wasn’t for him, but beyond that he hadn’t decided on a career path. But now, in light of his recent experiences, he could see himself doing the type of work that Cas’ friend Mara specialized in. He was uniquely suited for it.</p>
<p>This goal was achievable, but first he had to clear his name. As Cas had said, his path wouldn’t be easy, but he was up for the journey. He would not give up until he was exonerated, and he would fight anyone who stood in his way. Only then could he reclaim the future that had been stolen from him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean and Jody have a lead on Tiny's whereabouts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I researched police tactics but also took some artistic license. I took the names for the other cops from crime novels and TV shows I've enjoyed over the years. Mitchell's name comes from one of my favorite episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 (for those familiar with the episode, I did leave out the baby oil, lol). I couldn't resist throwing in a reference to my other favorite TV show!</p>
<p>Heartfelt thanks to Kassy Scarlett for continued beta help. You're the best!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean and Jody were on the road to Smithfield, a mid-sized city about an hour north. The Smithfield cops had a house under surveillance after a neighbor tipped them off that Tiny Randall was staying there. The marshals were on their way to rendezvous with Sergeant Mitchell, who would give them the latest update on the situation. Once Detective Morgan joined them there, they would coordinate with Mitchell on a plan to raid the house and arrest Tiny. This was a potentially dangerous action which required careful planning. The objective was to take Tiny into custody without injuring anyone.</p>
<p>Dean drove in silence, putting himself in tactical mode. Jody sat in the passenger seat, checking her phone for messages. They were waiting for an update on the DNA from the Newman murder. The report was late due to a backlog at the lab, but it might be ready later in the day or the next. It was the same old story: Hurry up and wait.</p>
<p>Dean would never admit it to anyone, but he was hoping that the DNA results would conclusively point to Tiny as Newman’s killer.</p>
<p>Jody put away her phone and looked at him. He was aware of her scrutiny, but kept his eyes on the road. Things had been uncharacteristically awkward between them for the last day or so, ever since he expressed his skepticism that the fingerprint conclusively proved Sam Wesson’s guilt. He found himself returning to the file during his spare time, rereading the interviews and the details of Newman’s murder.</p>
<p>The awkwardness increased when Jody caught him looking at the file. Well, to be honest, he was looking at Sam Wesson’s mug shot. He wasn’t <em>staring</em> at the photo; it wasn’t like he had a <em>crush</em> or anything. He was just studying the kid’s face, trying to figure out how this all-American boy had gone so wrong. Wasn’t Jody always talking about trying to get into the criminal’s head? That’s all he was trying to do. He was looking for an answer to a question that had intrigued him from the start.</p>
<p>She hadn't said anything, but she didn’t have to either. The way her eyes had narrowed and her lips tightened into a thin line spoke volumes. It made Dean feel uneasy and a little guilty, as if she had caught him looking at porn. Ever since then, she'd been giving him odd, speculative looks when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. As if she didn’t quite know what to make of him.</p>
<p>He didn’t want her to think less of him, and not just because it would affect their working relationship. If Jody sensed that he was off his game, then it was just a matter of time until Henriksen noticed. And Dean definitely didn’t want his boss to think less of him. Nothing good could come from that.</p>
<p>He had to snap out of this. His gut feelings about the murdered guard didn’t amount to anything. Even if Sam Wesson didn’t kill Newman, he was still guilty of murdering his roommate. He was a danger to the community as long as he remained at large. Capturing him was Job Number One.</p>
<p>Even so, he’d feel a hell of a lot better once the damned lab checked in.</p>
<p>As if reading his mind, Jody said, “No news from the lab.”</p>
<p>He nodded. “You know what they say about a watched pot.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>Something in her tone grated on him. He glanced at her once. “You want to say something to me, Jody?”</p>
<p>“I’m just wondering if your head’s in the game, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“What are you talking about?”</p>
<p>“Dean, you’ve been in a strange headspace ever since we got the news about the fingerprint.” She paused, thinking. “No, actually, before that. You made that comment to Wesson’s girlfriend. And then you were so hostile to his attorney.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t like him either.”</p>
<p>“I don’t like lawyers in general. You were focused specifically on Shurley.”</p>
<p>“Shurley’s a weasel. I don’t like weaselly people. That’s all.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure that’s all? Because I’ve never seen you like this before. I think Sam Wesson is getting into your head.”</p>
<p>“So you’re my therapist now?” He tried for a joking tone but couldn’t quite manage it.</p>
<p>“I’m your partner and your friend. And I need to know where your head’s at right now, Dean. Because we might be about to enter a dangerous situation, and if you’re not focused, someone could get hurt. Or worse. I'd prefer not to die in the line of duty, if it’s all the same to you.”</p>
<p>“Jesus, Jody. Don’t joke about something like that!”</p>
<p>“I’m not joking. I saw you obsessing over the file and I’m worried that it’s affecting your judgment.”</p>
<p>“Nothing’s wrong with my judgment. And I’m not ‘<em>obsessing’</em>. I’m keeping an open mind about Newman, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“Keeping an open mind was fine when there wasn’t any evidence. But we have evidence now and you don’t want to accept it. That’s not keeping an open mind. You’re sailing into flat-earth territory.”</p>
<p>His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “That’s a load of crap.” He struggled not to raise his voice. He didn’t want to fight with Jody.</p>
<p>“Just promise me something, Dean.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Promise me that you’ll accept the DNA results, whether they implicate Wesson or Tiny.”</p>
<p>He looked at her again and nodded. “Of course I will.”</p>
<p>“Good.” She took out her phone again and left him alone with his thoughts.</p>
<p>He supposed it was a good thing that Jody was airing her concerns, although her timing could have been better. But he knew she was right. He had to stay focused for both their sakes, and for the sake of the cops who would be joining them on the raid. Tiny was already responsible for two murders (maybe three). There was no telling what he might do if they cornered him. If Dean allowed himself to become distracted during the action and Jody or someone else got hurt (or worse), he’d never forgive himself. And Henriksen would have his ass on a platter.</p>
<p>He would keep his promise to Jody, and he would focus on the task at hand, starting right now. He would accept the DNA results, wherever they led. But that didn’t stop him from hoping that they led away from Sam Wesson.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>The task force assembled in a conference room at the Smithfield police station. Dean and Jody stood before a bulletin board at the front of the room. Photos of the two fugitives, as well as blueprints of the house where Tiny Randall was supposedly hiding, were pinned to the board. Detective Morgan sat at the long table next to Sergeant Mitchell, who led the Smithfield contingent which consisted of Detectives Marino, Burke, Lupo, and Boyd.</p>
<p>Less than twenty minutes ago, Davenport and Banks called in from their stakeout with a visual confirmation of Tiny’s presence. The task force was now in full planning mode.</p>
<p>“Sergeant Mitchell, what can you tell us about the homeowner?” asked Jody.</p>
<p>Mitchell opened a folder and took out a photo. He was a bear of a man, six feet tall and solidly built with a slight beer belly, broad shoulders and thick arms and legs. Graying dirty blond hair was slicked back against his skull. He had tried to crush Dean’s hand when they shook earlier, but the marshal returned the pressure without flinching, calmly meeting the other man’s faded blue eyes. After a couple of seconds Mitchell let go, apparently deciding that Dean had passed some kind of test. He didn’t try the hand crush with Jody but his manner was only slightly more polite. He didn’t seem too thrilled to have outsiders on his turf.</p>
<p>With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet and strolled over to the bulletin board. He held up the photo, revealing a thin-faced man with scraggly black hair and a scruffy beard. He took a pushpin and pinned the photo to the board with an emphatic thrust, as if he wished he could drive the pin into the thin-faced man’s skull.</p>
<p>Mitchell turned to address the room. His expression was weary and a little hostile.</p>
<p>“The house is owned by Frankie Palermo, a small-time crook who’s been in and out of prison over the last fifteen years. He and Randall were cellmates at Green River from 2015 to when Palermo got paroled in 2017. The warden out there told me they were pretty tight.” Mitchell’s voice was rough and gravelly. <em>Heavy smoker</em>, Dean guessed.</p>
<p>“Palermo? God damn it!” Morgan threw up his hands in exasperation. “I interviewed that son of a bitch on the phone yesterday and he swore that he hadn’t seen Randall in almost two years.”</p>
<p>“A dishonest criminal. Shocking.” Dean shook his head in mock surprise.</p>
<p>Mitchell snorted and continued his narrative. “Palermo lives there alone. A neighbor called in and said that he saw Palermo and another man entering the house with a couple shopping bags at around eleven last night. The other man was wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap, so the neighbor couldn’t see his face. But according to his description, the height and build are a match for Randall. The call came in just before midnight and we put a car on the house shortly after that. They saw Randall pass by the living room window about twenty minutes ago. No question it was him.” Mitchell snorted again. “He’s kind of hard to miss.”</p>
<p>“Randall escaped with another inmate, Sam Wesson.” Jody indicated Wesson’s mug shot on the board. “Any sign of him at the house?”</p>
<p>Mitchell shook his head. “The neighbor only mentioned seeing Palermo and Randall. No one else has entered or left the house since we began the stakeout. Our guys haven’t seen any sign of a third guy.”</p>
<p>“Morgan, you know Randall better than any of us,” said Dean. “Think he’s likely to surrender peacefully?”</p>
<p>Morgan shrugged. “The guy is unpredictable. It really depends on what kind of mood he’s in today.”</p>
<p>“We would prefer to take him alive,” said Dean. “We want to question him about Sam Wesson’s whereabouts, and C.O. Newman’s murder.”</p>
<p>“Naturally we want to take him without firing a shot,” said Mitchell. “But that hinges on what Randall does. If he gets violent, I’m not risking my people.”</p>
<p>“We don’t expect you to, Sergeant,” said Jody.</p>
<p>Mitchell grunted but didn’t say anything more.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>The task force drove to 410 Cranberry Street in three cars: Dean and Jody’s Dodge Charger, plus two black SUV Escalades containing the other cops. They arrived without sirens or lights and parked at the end of the block. It was just after seven a.m. The day was overcast and a little chilly. The street was deserted, although Dean could see curtains moving in a few windows as residents peeked out at the strange vehicles. It was a rundown, somewhat shabby neighborhood. Dean had a feeling that cops were frequent visitors here.</p>
<p>The cops gathered in front of the Charger, where they were joined by Davenport and Banks, the two detectives who had been watching the house. The team spent a couple of minutes checking their weapons and going over last minute strategy while Davenport and Banks donned bulletproof vests.</p>
<p>Dean would take a position behind Marino, who was tasked with using a ram to breach the front door. The two of them plus Davenport were in charge of clearing the first floor. Mitchell, Jody and Burke had the second floor while Lupo and Boyd took the basement. Morgan and Banks would cover the back door. Everyone wore body armor covered by windbreakers that identified their respective law enforcement agencies.</p>
<p>Dean asked, “Everyone clear on what they’re doing?”</p>
<p>There were nods all around.</p>
<p>“All right. Let’s go get him. We’re going in.”</p>
<p>They formed a line and filed silently down the block. Morgan unlocked the front gate and he and Banks quickly and stealthily moved around to the rear of the house. Dean and the rest of the team paused at the gate to give them a chance to get into position.</p>
<p>The house was silent. The entire block seemed to be holding its breath.</p>
<p>Dean gripped his weapon and inhaled deeply. He had been on a few of these raids and he always experienced jitters right before the action started. Adrenaline buzzed through his veins and his pulse pounded in his throat. His mouth was a little dry. He felt hyper aware and slightly nauseous.</p>
<p>Jody looked at him, eyebrows raised. He could read the question in her expression: <em>You good?</em> He gave her a quick nod in reply and she nodded back.</p>
<p>Dean raised his hand, signaling the team to move. Silently they filed into the yard and up the front steps to the porch. Dean and Marino exchanged nods.</p>
<p>He pounded on the door, three sharp raps. “Police! We have a warrant!”</p>
<p>There was a thump from inside the house and the sound of running feet. Dean moved aside and Marino bashed in the door. Everyone poured in as the sound of screeching hinges signaled that someone was opening the back door.</p>
<p>Morgan’s voice sang out, “Hello, Frankie! Going somewhere?”</p>
<p>There was a thud and a grunt as a body hit the ground. “Sit your ass down! You’re under arrest.”</p>
<p>Everyone snapped into their assigned roles. Jody, Mitchell and Burke hurried upstairs to check the second floor. Lupo and Boyd opened a door in the hall and headed down to the basement.</p>
<p>Dean and Davenport swept the living room, saw it was empty.</p>
<p>“Clear!” he barked.</p>
<p>A few seconds later Marino shouted “Clear!” from the kitchen.</p>
<p>There were more shouts of “Clear!” from upstairs as each room was checked. Dean swung around and exited the living room. He and Davenport joined Marino in the kitchen.</p>
<p>A few seconds later, a shout of “Clear!” floated up from the basement.</p>
<p>“Shit. Where is he?” muttered Dean. He, Davenport and Marino looked around the cramped kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes and the table was covered with beer cans and McDonald’s wrappers. A half-eaten Egg McMuffin sat on a paper plate next to a can of Budweiser.</p>
<p>There was a door to his left. It wasn’t completely closed. A closet? A pantry?</p>
<p>The three men exchanged glances and nodded at each other. Dean and Davenport gripped their guns and took up positions just outside the door as Marino silently moved up to it. Dean gave him another nod and Marino yanked open the door to reveal Tiny Randall crammed into the small space. The big man already had his hands in the air. He didn’t seem surprised to see two men pointing guns at him.</p>
<p>Dean gave him a small smile. “Hello, Tiny.”</p>
<p>“Hello yourself.”</p>
<p>“Come on out and join the party. You’re the guest of honor.”</p>
<p>Tiny grinned at him. “I like parties. Will there be cake?”</p>
<p>“Sure. Ice cream too. All for you.”</p>
<p>“Cool.”</p>
<p>“Come out slowly and keep your hands where we can see them.”</p>
<p>“Yes, <em>sir</em>.” Tiny eased his way out of the pantry ‒ <em>pantry</em> was too grand a name, since the space contained no food and only a single case of Budweiser ‒ and stood calmly before them, hands raised. He was still grinning.</p>
<p>Marino and Davenport held their guns on the convict as Dean holstered his weapon and pushed Tiny against the wall.</p>
<p>“You know the drill, Tiny. Assume the position.” Tiny placed his hands on the wall and spread his legs apart. Dean carefully frisked the convict.</p>
<p>“Usually, the guy buys me dinner first,” Tiny quipped.</p>
<p>“Just checking for paperclips.” Satisfied that the other man had no weapons, Dean took out his handcuffs and locked Tiny’s hands behind his back, reciting the Miranda rights as he did so. The larger man offered no resistance as he was cuffed.</p>
<p>“Do you understand these rights?” Dean asked when he was done.</p>
<p>“Yep.”</p>
<p>Dean took him by the arm and pulled him away from the wall. “Anyone else in the house?”</p>
<p>“Naw, just me and Frankie.”</p>
<p>“You know where Sam Wesson is?”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“The guy who escaped with you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, him.” Tiny nodded. “The skinny kid with the nice hair. Nah, I have no clue where he is.”</p>
<p>Lupo and Boyd came up from the basement. “Basement’s clear,” said Lupo.</p>
<p>Tiny directed a puzzled look at her. “What were you expecting to find? Jimmy Hoffa?”</p>
<p>Lupo shook her head. “You’re a real comedian, aren’t ya, Randall.”</p>
<p>“I try to keep things loose.”</p>
<p>Jody, Mitchell and Burke came downstairs. “Rest of the house is clear,” said Jody. “No sign of Wesson.”</p>
<p>Tiny huffed. “I just told your friend, I have no clue where he is.”</p>
<p>Dean took him by the elbow and walked him down the hall toward the front doorway. “Okay, Tiny. We’ll talk more about it at the station.”</p>
<p>As they exited the house, Tiny looked at the busted front door. “Frankie’s gonna be pissed that you broke the door, man.”</p>
<p>“That’s the least of his worries, trust me.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Tiny looked comfortable seated in the interrogation room across from Dean and Jody. His manacled hands were folded on the table in front of him. He smiled at the marshals as if he was at a job interview.</p>
<p>“This party sucks. I was promised cake and ice cream.”</p>
<p>Dean smiled right back at him. “Yeah, well, life is full of disappointments, isn’t it.”</p>
<p>“Mine sure is.”</p>
<p>Jody cleared her throat. “So, Tiny. What have you been up to?”</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing much. Watched a lot of TV. Ate some fast food. Frankie was good enough to lend me some cash so I could buy a little female companionship. Now that’s what I call a friend.” Tiny laughed. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay him back, though.”</p>
<p>“He won’t be able to collect for at least ten years,” said Jody. “So you don’t have to worry about that just yet.”</p>
<p>“Cool.”</p>
<p>“How’d you and Frankie hook up?”</p>
<p>“I ran through the woods for a little bit until I came to some crappy little town. It was late. Everything was closed. I broke into a discount store and helped myself to some stuff. I used their phone to call Frankie. He owed me a favor, so I figured it was time to collect. I found out where the store was from some mail they had under the counter and I gave Frankie the address. Turned out Smithfield was only a half hour away, and he was happy to drive out and pick me up. I was hungry, so he bought me some McDonald’s, and then he took me to this, uh, friend of his who helped me satisfy my <em>other</em> hunger.”</p>
<p>He snickered and winked at Jody. She didn’t react, just stared at him.</p>
<p>Dean noted, “You don’t seem all that upset about getting caught.”</p>
<p>Tiny shrugged. “No sense crying about it. I saw my shot and I took it. I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance of making it. I got no regrets.”</p>
<p>“Even about killing Newman?”</p>
<p>Tiny raised his eyebrows. “Newman’s dead? That’s a shame.”</p>
<p>“His neck was broken. You have anything to do with that?”</p>
<p>Tiny cocked his head as if he was thinking. “Must’ve been an accident. I think he fell down when he got out of the van.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t <em>help</em> him fall down?” asked Jody.</p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>“How about Sam? Did he help him fall down?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so, nope.”</p>
<p>“Whose idea was it to escape? Was it Sam’s?”</p>
<p>Tiny’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think it was <em>his </em>idea? Because he’s a college boy? You think I’m not smart enough to come up with an escape plan?”</p>
<p>Dean shrugged. “We’re not saying that, Tiny. But Sam is still out there, while you…well.” He gestured as if to say <em>Here you are</em>.</p>
<p>Tiny’s mouth twisted and something dark and homicidal flashed in his eyes. His fists clenched and his body tensed. For a moment it looked as if he might lunge across the table. Dean sat up straighter, locking eyes with Tiny. He betrayed no outward emotion, but his heart raced as he remembered Newman’s snapped neck.</p>
<p>“We want to find Sam, Tiny,” said Jody. “Do you know where he might be?” Her tone was mild but Dean knew she was also ready for an attack. If they needed extra help, Mitchell was outside watching the interrogation. Dean hoped that the three of them would be enough to subdue the larger man if the worst happened.</p>
<p>After a long moment, Tiny’s body relaxed. He sighed and the crazy look vanished. “What are you asking me for? What am I, his secretary? I don’t know where he is. You guys must be pretty desperate if you’re asking me.”</p>
<p>“Did he mention where he might go?”</p>
<p>“We didn’t have heart to heart conversations. I told him not to follow me. And he didn’t. It’s like the song says. We went our separate ways.” A small smile curved his lips. “So he’s still out there, huh? Good for him. I hope he makes it to Mexico.”</p>
<p>“We just want to bring him in safely before anyone else gets hurt.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” He yawned and sat back in his chair. “And now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”</p>
<p>Dean and Jody looked at each other and nodded. “All right, then,” said Dean. They stood up and began to walk out.</p>
<p>Jody left the room first. As Dean reached the door, Tiny said, “Just don’t give me Wesson’s lawyer, okay?”</p>
<p>Dean stopped in his tracks. His head whipped back to face Tiny. “What did you say?” His eyes narrowed.</p>
<p>“Get me any lawyer, as long as it’s not Chuck Shurley. I don’t want that crooked son of a bitch selling me out like he did Wesson.”</p>
<p>Dean took a step toward him. “Why do you say that?”</p>
<p>Tiny remained silent, just looked at him.</p>
<p>Dean took another step. “Tiny? What did you mean?”</p>
<p>Jody moved back inside and put her hand on his arm. “Dean. He invoked. We can’t talk to him anymore. Come on.”</p>
<p>He hissed with frustration, but turned away and followed her out of the room. Mitchell looked at them, eyebrows raised. “What was all that about?”</p>
<p>“Just Tiny being Tiny.” Jody headed for the coffee pot outside the conference room and poured a cup. She stepped aside and Dean helped himself. His adrenaline buzz was wearing off and he needed a boost.</p>
<p>They stepped into the conference room and he turned to Jody. “What do you think he meant?”</p>
<p>Jody shook her head and sipped her coffee, grimacing at the burnt, bitter taste. “Guess Tiny doesn’t like Chuck Shurley any more than you do.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but why? How did he even know that Shurley was Sam Wesson’s lawyer?”</p>
<p>“Maybe they talked about it in the van. Commiserated about their shitty lawyers.”</p>
<p>“But you heard him. He said they didn’t have heart to heart conversations.”</p>
<p>“So he heard about it through the jailhouse grapevine. So what? What difference does it make, Dean?”</p>
<p>“His choice of words just seemed a little funny, is all. He didn’t say Shurley was incompetent, or that he was a lousy lawyer. He said Shurley <em>sold Wesson out</em>. Like what, he’s on the take?” Dean drank some coffee and instantly felt sorry for the Smithfield cops.</p>
<p>“Dean, he was pulling your chain. Don’t read too much into it.”</p>
<p>Dean was about to reply when his phone rang. Frowning, he glanced at the screen. “It’s Henriksen.”</p>
<p>He answered the phone. “Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Winchester, is Mills with you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, she is.”</p>
<p>“Put me on speaker.”</p>
<p>Dean complied and put the phone on the table. Jody moved up closer.</p>
<p>“Mills?” Henriksen’s voice came out of the speaker.</p>
<p>“Here, sir.”</p>
<p>“Great. Good job taking down Randall, you two.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, sir.” They spoke almost in unison and Dean flashed a smile at Jody. Henriksen was not lavish with praise but he always acknowledged good work.</p>
<p>“We’ve set up a press conference there in Smithfield. It’s all set to go live at twelve o’clock. You know how it goes. Describe Randall’s arrest and put out an appeal for information on Sam Wesson. Give out the tipline and mention the reward. We’re bumping it up to ten thousand dollars.”</p>
<p>“Do you want Morgan and Mitchell in on the show?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely. Let them take some questions. We want to highlight the cooperation between our agency and the local law. We don’t hog the glory. Leave that shit to the FBI.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.” Jody and Dean exchanged smirks. Henriksen hated the FBI almost as much as he hated leaks.</p>
<p>“Great. After the press conference, come on back to the office. Time to regroup. We nabbed one of the bastards, but Wesson’s still out there. Let’s go get him.”</p>
<p>“Will do, sir.”</p>
<p>Henriksen hung up. Dean grinned at Jody. “No rest for the weary, huh? Let’s get ready for our close-ups.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>The press conference went very well. Morgan and Mitchell were thrilled to be included and when it was over, everyone was in good spirits. They saw Morgan off after promising to touch base with him about the ongoing search for Sam Wesson.</p>
<p>Mitchell walked them to their car. “Pleasure working with you folks,” he said. He shook hands with them, and didn’t even try to crush Dean’s hand this time.</p>
<p>“Same here. Good job today.”</p>
<p>“Any day we can get a scumbag off the streets is a good day.” He offered them a broad smile that made him look ten years younger. “Good luck with bringing in Wesson. Let me know if we can help.”</p>
<p>“You bet. Take care.” Dean and Jody climbed into the Charger and took off.</p>
<p>Since Dean drove them to Smithfield, Jody took the wheel for the ride back to the office. The mood in the car was a lot more relaxed this time.</p>
<p>“So the reward on Wesson is now ten thousand dollars,” he observed. “Guess that means more psychics will be calling us.”</p>
<p>“Maybe we should just go straight to the river and start searching. Cut out the middleman.”</p>
<p>Dean laughed and nodded as he checked his phone. Still no news from the lab. He was beginning to wonder if he ought to call and light a fire under them.</p>
<p>Traffic was light and they arrived at the city in a little under an hour. Jody reminded him that they hadn’t had lunch, so they stopped at a Burger King for a quick bite.</p>
<p>They were on their way back to the car when Dean’s phone pinged. He opened it and saw a text message from the crime lab. His heart leaped as he read it. “DNA is in. They want us to come down.”</p>
<p>Jody smiled. “It’s about time.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>CSI Officer Gruber was all business as she delivered the report. “There was a dime-sized smear of blood on the side of C.O. Newman’s neck, right on the place where his neck was snapped. It wasn’t his blood.”</p>
<p>“Just the one spot?” asked Jody.</p>
<p>“Yes. Most likely from a pricked finger.”</p>
<p><em>Like from a paperclip</em>, thought Dean. “So the killer somehow stuck his finger and then transferred the blood to Newman when he grabbed his neck?”</p>
<p>“Correct. We ran the DNA and got a match from CODIS.”</p>
<p>“And the winner is?” Dean thought he would collapse if this was drawn out any longer.</p>
<p>“Clarence Randall.”</p>
<p>Dean wanted to pump his fist and yell in triumph. He managed to stay calm as Jody said, “Thank you for getting back to us.”</p>
<p>“Not at all. Sorry for the delay. We’ve had a backlog the past couple of weeks.”</p>
<p>“No problem. These things happen.”</p>
<p>As they walked back to the car Jody said, “Your gut feeling paid off. Happy now?”</p>
<p>“Like Mitchell said, it’s a good day.”</p>
<p>“And now it’s one down and one to go.”</p>
<p>“Right. Onward and upward.”</p>
<p>As they headed back to the office, Dean reflected on the day’s events. He had a lot of reasons to feel satisfied. The raid was a success. They took down Tiny without firing a shot. His gut feeling about Sam Wesson had been confirmed. His working relationship with Jody was intact. And Henriksen was happy. It wasn’t just a good day – it was a <em>great</em> day.</p>
<p>It would have been a perfect day if Tiny hadn’t dropped that little bomb at the end of the interrogation.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Get me any lawyer, as long as it’s not Chuck Shurley. I don’t want that crooked son of a bitch selling me out like he did Wesson.”</em>
</p>
<p>Was he pulling Dean’s chain, as Jody had suggested? Or was there some truth to what he said?</p>
<p>Dean knew he had to find out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sam watches Dean's press conference on TV and it makes quite an impression on him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>On the show there is a 4 year age gap between Sam and Dean, but for the purposes of this story I have increased the gap to about 6 or 7 years. I did this to make room for Dean's 6 year career as a US Marshal.</p>
<p>Thanks as always to Kassy Scarlett for beta help and excellent input.</p>
<p>And much love to you readers for your kudos and kind comments! I'm so happy to see that you're enjoying the story.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam sat on the living room couch, reading <em>The Power And The Glory</em> and waiting for Cas to return for lunch. When a key rattled in the front door, he glanced up, smiling. His greeting died on his lips when Cas bolted into the room without taking off his jacket.</p>
<p>“Quick! Turn on the TV!”</p>
<p>Sam grabbed the remote from the table next to him. “What channel?”</p>
<p>“Channel 10. The news is about to start.”</p>
<p>Cas sat down on the couch. He was breathing hard and twisting his hands together. His face was very pale and he kept biting his bottom lip. Something big must have happened to agitate the normally unflappable priest. Sam had a feeling he knew what it was. He swallowed hard and turned on the TV.</p>
<p>“Something happened with my situation?”</p>
<p>Cas turned to him. “I was listening to the radio while I was working in my office, and a news bulletin came on. Tiny was arrested this morning.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Wow.” Sam set his book aside and folded his hands tightly in his lap. His hands felt cold.</p>
<p>“A press conference is supposed to start any minute.”</p>
<p>A burst of theme music announced the twelve o’clock news. The anchor had a somber manner as she said, “Good afternoon. I’m Julie Tran with the twelve o’clock news. Our top story: Clarence Randall, one of two convicted murderers who escaped from a prison transport van four days ago, was arrested this morning after a tip led authorities to a house in Smithfield.” Tiny’s mugshot flashed on the screen.</p>
<p>“Smithfield. That’s about 30 miles from here.” Cas fidgeted in his seat. Sam had never seen him act so nervous.</p>
<p>The anchor continued: “Randall was convicted earlier this year of robbing a 7-11 and fatally shooting two employees. A task force comprised of US marshals and local police raided the house and took Randall and the homeowner into custody.”</p>
<p>Sam raked his fingers through his hair. He knew what she would say next.</p>
<p>“Still at large is twenty-three year old Sam Wesson, who escaped with Randall. Wesson was convicted last year of brutally bludgeoning his roommate to death. News 10 will now go live to the Smithfield police department, where US Marshals are about to make a statement.”</p>
<p>Sam’s pulse quickened. He was finally going to see what his pursuers looked like.</p>
<p>The scene shifted to a podium outside a gray brick building. A dark-haired woman and two other men stood off to one side. Sam’s eyes went wide as he recognized one of the men.</p>
<p>“Morgan!”</p>
<p>“You know him?”</p>
<p>“The cop who questioned me about Chad. The first time he talked to me, I was all freaked out after finding Chad’s body. He was so sympathetic at first, but then he changed. He asked me to come to the precinct and answer some more questions. Then he started treating me like a suspect.”</p>
<p>Sam’s jaw clenched as he remembered how Morgan had become increasingly hostile and contemptuous once the interview changed into an interrogation. The detective leaned into him, invading his personal space, making no secret of his belief in Sam’s guilt. When Sam finally asked for a lawyer, Morgan had actually sneered at him. “You’re gonna need one, buddy,” he’d said as he left the room.</p>
<p>“Shit! That’s all I need, to have that son of a bitch after me.”</p>
<p>He suddenly remembered who he was talking to. His face flushed. “Sorry for my language.”</p>
<p>Cas waved him off. “I’m not a delicate flower, Sam. I don’t blame you for swearing. Under the circumstances, I think you’d be crazy <em>not</em> to swear.” He turned his attention to the TV. “Looks like the show is starting.”</p>
<p>On the screen a man strode to the podium. There was a hint of swagger to his walk. The camera zoomed in for a close-up and Sam caught his breath.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon,” said the man. His voice was gruff and authoritative. “I’m Deputy US Marshal Dean Winchester.”</p>
<p>A jolt ran through Sam’s body. Ever since he saw the name in the newspaper, he’d been curious about the marshal. He’d created a mental picture of an older man with a lined, craggy face and graying hair, maybe even going bald on top. Just for fun, he’d added a pot belly to the picture.</p>
<p>The reality wasn’t even close to his imagination. Dean Winchester looked like a GQ cover: tall, muscular, with short light brown hair, chiseled features and piercing green eyes. He didn’t look to be too much older than Sam, possibly twenty-nine or thirty. He wore a black short-sleeved button down shirt, open at the throat. The material fit snugly on his upper body and showed off his toned arms. The shirt bore a logo on the left side, over his heart: a gold five point star enclosed in a circle. Sam guessed that it was the Marshals’ insignia.</p>
<p>He forgot all about Detective Morgan and barely noticed the woman and the other man. All of his attention was focused on Dean Winchester.</p>
<p>The marshal glanced at his notes on the podium, then looked up and began to speak:</p>
<p>“This morning a task force comprised of US Marshals and local law enforcement arrested Clarence Randall. The task force was acting on a tip from a neighbor who saw Randall and one other man entering a house at 410 Cranberry Street. The other man was identified as Frank Palermo, who was the homeowner. After a surveillance team confirmed Randall’s identity, the task force raided the house. Palermo was apprehended while attempting to flee the premises. Randall was found hiding in another room and offered no resistance as he was taken into custody. He is currently being held at the Smithfield County Jail waiting to be arraigned on charges of escape and the murder of Corrections Officer Fred Newman. Palermo is also being held on charges of harboring a fugitive.”</p>
<p>Cas observed, “They’re charging Tiny with Newman’s murder. That must mean they no longer suspect you.”</p>
<p>“Maybe. I hope so.” Sam’s heart was pumping very fast, not entirely due to anxiety over his situation. He had to force himself to focus on Winchester’s speech. It was difficult because he kept staring at the man’s face, especially the sensual mouth and pouty lips.</p>
<p>
  <em>Snap out of it, Sam!</em>
</p>
<p>Winchester went on: “This arrest could not have happened without the participation of the Smithfield Police Department, as well as the police from our own capital city. Our partnership with local law enforcement is crucial to the US Marshals’ goal of apprehending fugitives. I want to express my appreciation to Detective Bill Morgan and Sergeant James Mitchell for their hard work in helping bring Clarence Randall to justice. We will continue to partner with local law enforcement throughout the state in our ongoing search for convicted murderer Samuel Wesson, who escaped with Randall four days ago and is still at large.”</p>
<p>He looked into the camera and Sam flinched. Those cold green eyes appeared to be staring directly at him. It was as if Winchester was sending him a telepathic message: <em>I’m coming for you, Sam. You can’t escape me</em>.</p>
<p>The marshal’s stare pinned him like a butterfly in a display case. He shuddered and wrapped his arms tightly around himself.</p>
<p>“We are asking the public to come forward with any information they may have concerning Wesson’s whereabouts. The reward for information leading to his arrest has now been increased to ten thousand dollars.”</p>
<p>He gave the tip line number and Sam rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks for the upgrade.”</p>
<p>The screen split, one half showing Winchester’s image and the other half displaying Sam’s mugshot, with the tip line number underneath it. Sam groaned. He would be so happy never to see that photo again.</p>
<p>“Wesson is considered to be dangerous. If you see him, we advise you to contact law enforcement immediately. Do <em>not</em> approach him or attempt to apprehend him yourself. Now I’ll take some of your questions before turning things over to the other members of the task force.”</p>
<p>Sam wanted to throw something at the TV. “I’m <em>innocent</em>, you dumbass!”</p>
<p>Cas squeezed his shoulder but he hardly felt it.</p>
<p>A reporter asked a question. Her voice was barely audible and Sam couldn’t make out any words other than his name.</p>
<p>Winchester looked thoughtful as he concentrated on the question. He nodded, picked up a bottle of Poland Spring from the podium and took a sip of water. Sam admired the way his lips curled around the top of the bottle.</p>
<p>“No, there is no evidence that Wesson had ever been in the Cranberry Street house. As far as we know, Wesson and Randall went their separate ways after they escaped from the prison van.”</p>
<p>There was another short question.</p>
<p>Winchester shook his head. “We don’t believe that Wesson has left the state. We’re following a number of active leads, and we welcome any tips from the general public.”</p>
<p><em>Active leads</em>. Were they from the tip line? What were people saying about him? Sam wished he could find out.</p>
<p>Another disembodied voice spoke and Winchester listened, his head cocked to one side and his eyes narrowed in an intense stare. Sam imagined being on the receiving end of that look and shuddered again.</p>
<p>“Our investigation indicates that Randall murdered Officer Newman, but I can’t go into specific details at this time.”</p>
<p>“Finally, some good news,” Cas murmured. Sam sighed and nodded.</p>
<p>“Okay, folks,” Winchester said. “At this time I’m going to hand things over to Detective Morgan and Sergeant Mitchell. Thank you.”</p>
<p>Winchester stepped away and the cops took the podium. He stood to one side, next to the dark-haired woman. She was a couple of inches shorter than Winchester and wore a black shirt identical to his. Sam guessed that she was also a marshal. Like her colleague, she carried herself with a cool, no-nonsense demeanor.</p>
<p>One look at their severe, determined expressions told Sam that they would never quit until they caught him. It didn’t matter that he was innocent. They would put him in chains and drag him to prison, kicking and screaming all the way. Then they’d probably go have a beer to celebrate their great victory.</p>
<p>“Sam?” Cas’ voice broke into his reverie. “Are you all right?”</p>
<p>He turned toward the priest. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He couldn’t keep the quaver out of his voice, and he cleared his throat. “So that’s the man who’s hunting me.”</p>
<p>“I guess it’s good to put a face to the name.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it is.” He huffed a short laugh. “But I didn’t expect him to be so…” He almost said <em>smokin’</em> <em>hot</em>, but stopped himself. He couldn’t say that to a priest. “So <em>young</em>. I thought he’d be around my uncle Bobby’s age.”</p>
<p><em>Smokin’</em> <em>hot</em>…<em>smokin’ hot</em>… The words ran around his brain like a song that wouldn’t go away.</p>
<p>He mentally shook himself. “So, Cas. Does this change our strategy?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Now that they’ve caught Tiny, they can focus all their resources on hunting you. That makes things harder for us. And that reward doesn’t help.”</p>
<p>“They put a target on my back.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to think that people will resist the temptation to turn you in if they see you, but ten thousand dollars is a lot of money.”</p>
<p>He paused, thinking. “I was going to reach out to my friends in the network today, but now I think I should hold off. Let’s give it a couple of days to see if the heat dies down. If it does, I’ll start making some calls. So it looks like you’ll be my guest for another day or two.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to keep imposing on you, Cas. You’ve done so much for me already.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about that, Sam. Right now, I just want to keep you safe.”</p>
<p>On the TV, the two cops and the female marshal were taking questions as Winchester stood to the side, muscular arms folded across his chest, chin slightly raised, his icy green eyes staring out at the assembled press.</p>
<p>“They all look so serious.” Sam looked back at Cas. Dread was building steadily in his gut. “This isn’t the minor league team, Cas. I think – I think I’m in real trouble here.”</p>
<p>Cas nodded and sighed. “I think you’re right.”</p>
<p>“You know what? This would be a good time for one of those Bible verses.”</p>
<p>“Sure. Give me a minute to think of a good one.” He sat back on the couch, staring into space, brows knitted, fingers steepled under his chin.</p>
<p>Sam looked back at the TV. His gaze lingered on Dean Winchester. A storm of emotions overwhelmed him. Fear, yes. Anxiety, definitely. Even a touch of anger at the unfairness of it all. But there was something else that he couldn’t define. Something that made his chest feel tight every time he looked at the marshal’s face. He could stare at that face for hours.</p>
<p>
  <em>What’s happening to me?</em>
</p>
<p>“I’ve got one.”</p>
<p>Sam wrenched his attention from the TV and turned to the priest.</p>
<p>Cas seemed calmer now. “It’s from Psalms. It seems appropriate to your situation.” He took a deep breath and recited in a low, calm voice:</p>
<p>“<em>Lord, how many are my foes! How many rise up against me! Many are saying of me, ‘God will not deliver him.’ But you, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. I call out to the Lord, and he answers me from his holy mountain. I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me. I will not fear though tens of thousands assail me on every side.</em> Psalm 3, verses 1 through 6.”</p>
<p>Sam let out a long breath as the words sank in. “Nice.” He nodded approval and smiled at Cas. “I don’t know how you do it, Cas. You have a knack for finding just the right verse. I bet you give amazing sermons.”</p>
<p>Cas uttered an embarrassed little chuckle. “Well, thank you, Sam. That’s a really nice thing to say. One day after all this is over, I hope you’ll come see me in action some Sunday. I don’t set the world on fire, but I don’t put people to sleep, either.”</p>
<p>“I’d love to come to Mass. I’ll sit right in the front row.”</p>
<p>“That’ll be great. And I’m glad you liked the verse. You can always count on Psalms to lift your spirits.”</p>
<p>“You were right, it fit my situation. I do feel like I’m being assailed on every side.”</p>
<p>He glanced back at the screen. The press conference had ended and the anchor had gone on to other news.</p>
<p>Cas picked up the remote and shut the TV. He stood up. “Let’s have lunch. Then it’s back to church for me. I have to officiate at a funeral tomorrow morning, so I need to prepare for the service. After that, I think I’ll put in a call to Mara and schedule a time for us to speak with her. Even if we’re not moving you yet, there’s no reason why we can’t get started on involving her.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded and also rose. “Yes. Good idea.”</p>
<p>As they headed to the kitchen, he imagined what it would be like to walk into Saint Swithin’s after being exonerated. Going out in public was a simple act that everyone else took for granted. Once upon a time, so had he. The day when he could finally move freely again would be the best day of his life. He longed for that day so fiercely that it made his heart ache.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>After Cas left for church Sam went back to the living room. He finished the Graham Greene novel and looked through Cas’ books for something new to read. Nothing appealed to him. He moved around the room, feeling bored and restless. A glance at the clock on the TV’s set top box told him that it was just two-thirty. He sighed and returned to the couch.</p>
<p>He turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. He bypassed CNN and the other news networks, deciding that he’d seen enough news for one day.</p>
<p><em>Law &amp; Order </em>was on another station. <em>Pass</em>. He used to enjoy cop shows and movies, but given his current situation the subject matter hit a little too close to home. He flipped some more channels, looking for something that wouldn’t put too many demands on his brain.</p>
<p>Finally he landed on the Food Network. They were in the middle of a <em>Chopped</em> marathon. <em>Perfect</em>. He didn’t cook, apart from the occasional grilled cheese sandwich, but he enjoyed watching the chefs whip up gourmet dishes from all kinds of crazy ingredients. He put down the remote and settled in on the couch. It was a relief to turn off his brain for a couple of hours and lose himself in the show.</p>
<p>Two hours into his binge watch, the shriek of a siren slashed through the air. He hit the mute button, his entire body tensing.</p>
<p>
  <em>Is that coming for me?</em>
</p>
<p>The siren came closer and closer. He couldn’t tell if it was a police car, fire truck or an ambulance, and he didn’t dare expose himself by lifting up the window shade to peek outside. His heart felt as if it might explode out of his chest. The remote shook in his trembling hands.</p>
<p>What should he do? He could try to hide here in the house, but that hadn’t worked out so well for Tiny. Should he run? But where could he go? If he went outside someone might drop a dime on him. He’d spend the rest of his life kicking himself if he got arrested after panicking over a siren. Especially if wasn’t even a police siren.</p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t make a sound. Don’t even breathe.</em>
</p>
<p>His brain conjured up an image of Dean Winchester and his lady partner kicking down the front door and pointing guns at him, ordering him to freeze. Did real law enforcement officers yell “<em>Freeze!</em>” or did they only do that on TV?</p>
<p>He was being ridiculous. Winchester didn’t know where he was. How could he know?</p>
<p>Maybe it was one of those “<em>active</em> <em>leads</em>”. Or maybe they grabbed Cas and made him talk?</p>
<p>
  <em>You’re crazy. How would they know about Cas? Besides, even if they did grab him he’d never turn you in.</em>
</p>
<p>Sam huddled on the couch, paralyzed with doubt and fear. His breath came in short, harsh gasps. Sweat popped out on his hairline. He tried to recall the verse that Cas had quoted earlier but the words had fled his brain.</p>
<p>He managed to come up with a prayer of his own: <em>God, if you’re listening, please don’t let them catch me. Please protect me.</em></p>
<p>After several seconds the siren finally faded away. Blissful silence descended. <em>Thank you, God.</em></p>
<p>He let out a long exhale and slumped forward, putting his head in his hands. His entire body trembled. Tears stung the corners of his eyes.</p>
<p>Would it always be like this? Jumping at shadows, never being able to go outside? Always wondering if someone might be about to pounce on him? Sam might not be in a prison cell, but that didn’t mean he was a free man. He had been living this nightmare for over a year. How long before he forgot what real freedom felt like?</p>
<p>Sam raised his head and sighed, swiping away a tear. He felt weak and exhausted. He stared at the silent images on the TV and suddenly didn’t feel like watching <em>Chopped</em> anymore. He turned off the TV and flopped back on the couch.</p>
<p>His thoughts returned to the press conference. He remembered how Winchester had looked directly into the camera, how those piercing green eyes and that gorgeous mouth had captivated him.</p>
<p>A thought popped into his head: What would it be like to kiss those perfect lips?</p>
<p>He closed his eyes and imagined Winchester – <em>Dean</em> – pushing him up against the wall and pressing his mouth to Sam’s. Would he cup Sam’s face in his hands the way Sam used to do with Jess? Would he be gentle or rough as he slipped his tongue past Sam’s lips? Would Sam let him? Oh hell yeah! He would let the marshal take whatever he wanted. The thought made him feel hot and cold all at once.</p>
<p>His fingers strayed to the front of his sweatpants, tracing the hardening outline of his dick through the material. He let out a soft little moan.</p>
<p>Wait. What the <em>hell</em> was he doing?</p>
<p>Sam gasped and snapped back to reality. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. What was happening to him? He had never thought about a man <em>that</em> way before. Had never even been tempted to experiment. This was the worst possible time for temptation, with the worst possible man. He wasn’t sure why his brain had started down this road, but he had to slam the brakes on these runaway thoughts right <em>now</em>.</p>
<p>Hell, if he wanted to be reckless, why not call the tip line and ask the guy out?</p>
<p>
  <em>Hi, Dean? This is Sam Wesson. That’s right, the fugitive. So, I saw you on TV and I think you’re really hot, and I was wondering if you would like to go on a date with me this weekend? If you’re not too busy trying to arrest me, that is.</em>
</p>
<p>Crazy? No less crazy than fantasizing about kissing the man who wanted to put him in prison.</p>
<p>Sam was acting like a high school kid with a crush on his teacher. It was a dangerous distraction. Distractions lead to mistakes and, in his case, mistakes could lead to prison. He couldn’t afford to think of Marshal Winchester as anything other than a threat to his freedom.</p>
<p>He had to keep his mind on his goals: staying free and clearing his name. Nothing else mattered.</p>
<p>Or as Bobby would say, “Quit thinking with your little head!”</p>
<p>After he was cleared, he could experiment to his heart’s content, with any man he chose. Any man except Marshal Dean Winchester.</p>
<p>
  <em>Winchester is the enemy. Never forget that. </em>
</p>
<p>A <em>smokin’</em> <em>hot </em>enemy.</p>
<p>
  <em>I am in so much trouble.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean asks Bobby Singer to make a televised appeal for Sam to turn himself in. It doesn't go exactly as planned.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy New Year, everyone! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. I appreciate the kudos and comments, more than I can say.</p>
<p>Thanks as always to the wonderful Kassy Scarlett for beta help.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After they came back from the crime lab, Dean and Jody began brainstorming on their next move in the hunt for Sam Wesson. They were energized from the successful capture of Tiny Randall, but the buzz soon faded when they kept hitting dead ends on Wesson. The latest tips from the hotline yielded no new information and their usual checks of planes, trains and buses also came up empty.</p>
<p>After an hour of frustration, Jody stood up and stretched, grimacing as her joints popped.</p>
<p>She sighed. “I can’t figure it out, Dean. How does a twenty-three year old kid with no friends, no girlfriend and no money evade capture for four days?”</p>
<p>“He beat Tiny’s best time,” said Dean. “I wouldn’t have bet on that. Tiny was the experienced criminal, not him. I honestly thought we would nab Wesson within the first twenty-four hours, and here we’re into our fourth day.”</p>
<p>“I know.” Jody nodded and sat down again. “Not a peep from the wire taps on Bobby Singer. Not a single viable lead from the tip line. He’s a ghost.”</p>
<p>She took a sip of her coffee and made a face. The brew from their office coffee maker was only slightly better than what they’d had at the Smithfield police department.</p>
<p>“<em>Somebody’s</em> helping him,” Dean said. “He must have made a friend somewhere. Maybe a woman picked him up hitch hiking and he’s shacked up with her.” He scowled at the unwanted mental image of Wesson frolicking in bed with some faceless bimbo.</p>
<p>Jody scoffed and shook her head. “Sounds like a bad porno. Come on, would a woman do that these days? I know he’s cute, but it’s so dangerous out there. Ever watch the Investigation Discovery channel? Hell, I wouldn’t pick up a hitch hiker and I carry a gun.”</p>
<p>Dean’s scowl faded when she said the word <em>cute</em>. “Maybe he flashed the puppy dog eyes. Never underestimate the power of the puppy dog eyes.”</p>
<p>Jody arched an eyebrow at him and seemed about to comment, but thankfully Dean’s phone rang.</p>
<p>The number on the caller ID was unfamiliar. “Dean Win ‒”</p>
<p>“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PEOPLE DOING?”</p>
<p>The booming voice made him flinch. But he recognized it. “Mr. Singer?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s me. Are you jackasses trying to get my nephew killed?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Singer, what are you talking about?” He put the phone on his desk and pushed the speaker button because he couldn’t take Singer shouting into his ear.</p>
<p>“I’m talking about the ten thousand dollar target you geniuses put on that boy’s back when you had your little dog and pony show this afternoon.”</p>
<p>“Sir, offering a reward is standard procedure when we’re seeking information ‒”</p>
<p>“Don’t you talk down to me! I don’t give a shit about your standard procedures. You are putting Sam at risk. Suppose some wannabe hero spots him? He figures the reward’s good whether Sam’s dead or alive, so he shoots the kid. What do you say then? <em>Oops</em>, <em>sorry</em>?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Singer ‒”</p>
<p>“Or maybe that’s the plan, huh, Winchester? You don’t have the balls to pull the trigger yourself, so you get some citizen to do it for you?”</p>
<p>“Now wait a minute, Mr. Singer. That’s completely untrue.” Dean’s fingers curled tightly around his pen, squeezing it until he feared it would snap.</p>
<p>“Oh really? How else am I supposed to see it?”</p>
<p>“First of all, this isn’t the Wild West. Sam is not wanted dead or alive. The reward is for information that leads to his arrest. And if you watched the press conference, then you heard me clearly state that people are <em>not</em> to approach Sam if they see him. I said that they should call the police.”</p>
<p>“Right, and they’ll do that just because <em>you</em> said so? Come on! You’re law enforcement. You should know better than anyone how twitchy people can get when there’s money involved. God damn it, am I the only one here with a functioning brain?”</p>
<p>“Sir, I understand that you’re upset about Sam, but please lower your voice.”</p>
<p>“Take the bounty off of him and I’ll calm down.”</p>
<p>“I can’t do that, Mr. Singer. It’s not my call.”</p>
<p>“Then whose call is it? Your boss? Put him on. Maybe he’ll listen to me.”</p>
<p>For a moment Dean was tempted to patch him through to Henriksen. Bobby Singer squaring off against his boss would be a true ‘grab the popcorn' moment.</p>
<p>He looked at Jody and raised his eyebrows as if to say, <em>Do I dare?</em></p>
<p>She shook her head. Dean nodded and shrugged acknowledgement with a rueful smile. She was right. Dealing with irate family members was part of their job, not Henriksen’s, and he wouldn’t hesitate to remind Dean of that fact. Any entertainment value that might come from <em>Singer vs. Henriksen</em> would be far outweighed by the ass-chewing that Dean would receive for wasting his boss’s time.</p>
<p>“I can’t do that either, Mr. Singer.”</p>
<p>“Gee, you’re just all kinds of helpful, aren’t you?” The contempt in Singer’s voice irritated Dean and he bit back a snarky reply. Then an idea occurred to him.</p>
<p>“Mr. Singer, do you want to help Sam?”</p>
<p>“What is it with you people and the dumb questions? Of course, I want to help him.”</p>
<p>“Well, would you be willing to go on TV and make an appeal to Sam?” He caught Jody’s eye again and she gave him an excited nod.</p>
<p>There was a beat of silence. “What do you mean: appeal?”</p>
<p>“Urge him to turn himself in.”</p>
<p>“What would I need to do?”</p>
<p>“We’d set it up. You’d just make a brief statement, and there would be no questions from the press. We can write it for you, if you like. It wouldn’t be a script, exactly. More like a list of bullet points.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I think I’d prefer to write it myself. It would sound more like me, you know?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely. It’s probably best if you write it. This way you can speak from the heart.”</p>
<p>“Do you think it will work?” The anger was gone from the other man’s voice. He even sounded hopeful.</p>
<p>“It’s worked in the past. Mr. Singer, Sam trusts you, and your opinion means a lot to him.”</p>
<p>“Would he even see it?”</p>
<p>“I think it’s a safe bet that he would. Wherever he is, he probably has access to a TV. I’m sure he wants to keep up to date with the news, just to see if we’re closing in on him. I think he’s scared, probably confused. Maybe he regrets his decision to run, but he doesn’t know what to do next. You can help him do the right thing now.”</p>
<p>Singer let out a long sigh. “I just want this shit show to be over.”</p>
<p>“I hear you, sir. I agree with you. And no matter what you might think about us, we don’t want to see Sam get hurt. The longer he’s on the run, the greater the chance that this ends badly for him. We arrested the other fugitive without incident and we want to do the same for Sam.”</p>
<p>There was a beat of silence. Dean held his breath.</p>
<p>“All right. Let’s do it.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Henriksen signed off on the televised appeal, and Dean and Jody scrambled to set it up so it would be ready in time to air that evening on the six o’clock news. Singer came down to their offices at the Federal Building and met with them to go over the statement. He was simply dressed in a grey sport jacket and slacks with a white dress shirt. His thinning grey hair was slicked back. Dean couldn’t help noticing the other man’s pale complexion and the dark circles under his eyes. The poor guy probably hadn’t slept in several days.</p>
<p>Singer showed them a sheet of paper with a list of bullet points that he had typed up. They emphasized how worried he was about his nephew, and how nobody would hurt Sam if he surrendered peacefully. The last point urged him to turn himself in at the nearest police station.</p>
<p>Dean looked it over and nodded approval. Their press people would have come up with something almost identical.</p>
<p>With everything all set to go, he and Jody brought Singer down in the elevator to the plaza outside the building, where a podium was set up and television crews were ready.</p>
<p>“Okay, Mr. Singer, we’re all set up for you here. I’ll make a few introductory remarks, and then I’ll hand it over to you. Remember, speak from the heart and keep it short and sweet. Just look into the camera and imagine you’re talking to Sam face to face. Use his name as often as possible. It will help him connect with what you’re saying.”</p>
<p>“Sure. Anything to help Sam.” Singer rubbed his eyes.</p>
<p>“Okay, then. Let’s go help him.”</p>
<p>Once they received the signal to begin, Dean took up a position at the podium. He introduced himself and then said, “We’re here this evening regarding the ongoing search for Sam Wesson, the convicted murderer who escaped from a prison transport van four days ago. We have received numerous tips as to his whereabouts, but as of now we have not yet located him. At this time I want to introduce Sam’s uncle, Robert Singer. He is going to make a direct appeal to Sam himself. Mr. Singer, go ahead, please.”</p>
<p>Dean stepped aside and Singer came up to the podium. He placed the paper in front of him and smoothed it out nervously. “Uh, hello,” he said. “My name is Bobby Singer and I’m Sam Wesson’s uncle. I want to say something to Sam tonight.”</p>
<p>He cleared his throat, excused himself, and looked into the camera. “Sam, if you’re watching this, I know you have a lot of things running through your mind right now. Maybe you didn’t plan to run. Maybe you just acted on impulse. I know you’re a good kid. You probably didn’t mean for things to go this far. I’m sure you’re confused and scared and wondering what you should do now. You probably feel like you’re all alone because your so-called <em>friends </em>all abandoned you.”</p>
<p>An edge of bitterness crept into Singer’s voice. Dean shifted his feet uneasily. That wasn’t one of the bullet points on the list.</p>
<p>Singer went on: “Sam, you’re the only family I’ve got and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Please know that I haven’t abandoned you. And I never will. Don’t ever forget that.”</p>
<p>He paused, looking down at the paper for several seconds, throat working as he swallowed hard. Dean stood to the side, watching him. He could appreciate how hard this must be for Singer. But if the pause went on too much longer, he’d have to give the man a gentle nudge.</p>
<p>Just as he was about to say something Singer looked up. His expression had hardened. “Sam, they said I should tell you to turn yourself in.” He looked at Dean. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”</p>
<p>Dean felt as if he had been slapped. Beside him, he heard Jody’s sharp intake of breath.</p>
<p>He opened his mouth but had no idea what to say. He knew he had to stop this but his body was frozen.</p>
<p>Singer looked back at the camera. His expression was full-on defiant now. His voice rose into a shout. “Sam, I know you’re innocent! You didn’t kill that boy and I’m not going to stand here and pretend that you’re some mad dog killer. The jury made a stupid decision and that jackass Chuck Shurley gave you a shitty defense! If you surrender, they’re gonna put you in a cage and throw away the key. They’ll never admit they were wrong. They’d rather let you die in that hellhole first. Don’t turn yourself in, son. <em>Don’t do it!</em>”</p>
<p>Dean’s paralysis finally broke. “Okay, Mr. Singer, I think we’re done here.” He stepped back to the podium but Singer didn’t move.</p>
<p>“<em>You keep running, Sam, you hear me? Keep fighting!</em>”</p>
<p>Dean put his hand over the microphone but Singer’s shouts could still be heard.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Don’t give up! I’ll find some way to help you!”</em>
</p>
<p>“Please, Mr. Singer, that’s enough.” He took hold of Singer’s arm while Jody came over and took the other. His grip was firm, but not hard enough to hurt Singer. He didn’t want to manhandle the guy, at least not while the cameras were still rolling.</p>
<p>Singer offered no resistance as they led him away. He stared straight ahead, breathing hard.</p>
<p>Reporters surged towards them, shouting questions.</p>
<p>“No questions. We’re done here,” Dean’s voice carried above the throng as he and Jody escorted Singer to the Federal Building’s entrance and into the lobby.</p>
<p>Security kept the reporters at bay as Dean, Jody and Singer passed through the turnstile and headed to an elevator bank. Employees hurried past, paying no attention to them in their eagerness to get home after a long day at work. One or two reporters tried to push through the turnstile but the guards barred their entry. After a few more shouted questions they finally fell back and went outside.</p>
<p>As soon as the reporters were gone, Singer pulled free from Dean and Jody. “Let go of me, damn it.” He glared at both of them.  His face was flushed and he was blinking hard as he tried to force back tears.</p>
<p>Dean wanted to scream at him, but all he could manage was a single word: “Why?”</p>
<p>Singer shook his head. “Don’t you get it, man? He’s the only family I’ve got.” His voice was strained, as if someone was squeezing his throat. “And he’s innocent. I can’t let you people put him away. A boy like him in a maximum security prison? They’ll kill him in there. I just ‒ I can’t.” He wiped at his eyes with his hand.</p>
<p>Dean wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him until his brain rattled. Somehow he restrained himself. His entire body felt numb. Everything seemed so simple an hour ago. How had it all turned to shit so quickly?</p>
<p>“I thought you wanted to help Sam!” He had to struggle to keep his voice down. “This isn’t helping him.”</p>
<p>“You can arrest me if you want to,” said Singer. “I don’t care. I couldn’t go through with it. Telling him to turn himself in would have been like saying he’s guilty, and that is a lie. I’ve never lied to Sam and I won’t start now.”</p>
<p>“If you felt so strongly about this, you should have told us,” said Jody. “We wouldn’t have pushed you to do it.”</p>
<p>Singer turned to her. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. Look, Marshal, you told me to make an appeal to Sam. You told me to speak from the heart. That’s what I did. It just wasn’t the appeal that you wanted to hear.”</p>
<p>Dean stepped away, rubbing his forehead. A vicious headache drilled his temples. His phone chirped at him, announcing an incoming text. With a feeling of dread he dug it out of his pocket and looked at the screen.</p>
<p>
  <strong>MY OFFICE. NOW.</strong>
</p>
<p>Henriksen. Just what Dean needed to make his day complete.</p>
<p>He gave Jody a sick little smile. “Well, Jody. It was nice working with you.” He left her and Singer behind as he headed for the nearest elevator.</p>
<p>
  <em>Time to say goodbye to my career.</em>
</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>A few minutes later he was back on his floor. People avoided his eyes as he walked through the bullpen area and down the hall to Henriksen’s office. <em>Word travels fast.</em></p>
<p>He tapped on Henriksen’s door and the other man’s voice replied, “Come in.”</p>
<p>Dean stepped inside. “Close the door behind you, Winchester.”</p>
<p>He obeyed, feeling like a third grader who had just been summoned to the principal’s office.</p>
<p>Henriksen sat behind his immaculate desk, hands folded in front of him. “Have a seat.” His expression was carefully composed.</p>
<p>Dean trudged forward. His insides were twisted into knots. Henriksen wasn’t yelling yet. Was that a good sign or not? He seated himself and met his boss’s gaze.</p>
<p>Henriksen shook his head and huffed out a short laugh. “Well, that could have gone better. I watched the live stream on my computer. The comments are about what you’d expect. People think that Singer played us for chumps. They’re right.”</p>
<p>“Sir, I’m sorry. I had no idea that Singer would go rogue.”</p>
<p>Henriksen sighed. “Neither did I. He played both of us. And you know what, Dean? I don’t blame the guy.”</p>
<p>Dean cocked his head, puzzled. “Sir?” He couldn’t remember if his boss had ever called him by his first name before.</p>
<p>“You have kids, Dean?”</p>
<p>“No sir, I don’t.”</p>
<p>“I have a son.” Henriksen picked up a framed photograph from his desk and showed it to Dean. In it a young boy sat on a couch, grinning and hugging a brown and white puppy.</p>
<p>“Cute kid.”</p>
<p>Henriksen smiled and replaced the photo on his desk. “His name’s Josh. He just turned twelve. And if he was in trouble, I’d cut off my right arm if it would help him. I know Singer feels the same way. He might not be Wesson’s biological father, but he’s the closest thing to it. I don’t condone what he did, but I understand it.”</p>
<p>Dean nodded. “I get that.”</p>
<p>“Of course, it doesn’t change the fact that he made us look like fools.”</p>
<p>“Sir, I should have suspected that he was planning to flip the script. He was so hostile the first time we spoke to him, and again when he called earlier today. But as soon as I suggested the appeal, he became cooperative, like someone had flicked a switch. That should have tipped me off right there.”</p>
<p>“You thought he had come around to your way of thinking. A reasonable assumption.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but it turned out to be the wrong assumption and it made the Marshals Service look bad. That’s on me.”</p>
<p>He took a deep breath, feeling as if he was about to step off a tall building. “I can have my resignation on your desk within the hour.”</p>
<p>“And I’ll put it in the shredder sixty seconds after that.” Henriksen shook his head. “Look, Winchester, this wasn’t our finest hour, but in a day or two nobody will remember it. You’re a stellar member of my team. I’m not going to let you fall on your sword over this. Keep things in perspective. Yeah, you looked bad on TV, but at least nobody died.”</p>
<p>Henriksen rose and so did Dean. “We’ll bring in Wesson without his uncle’s help. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get back in the fight.”</p>
<p>“I will, sir. Thank you.” Dean headed for the door. Relief surged through him. He could hardly believe his good luck. He hadn’t just dodged a bullet – he’d dodged a fucking cruise missile!</p>
<p>His hand was on the doorknob when a thought occurred to him. He turned back to Henriksen. “Sir, what about Singer? Will he face any consequences because of what he did tonight?” He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted his boss to say yes.</p>
<p>Henriksen sighed and shrugged. “You mean, should we push for an obstruction of justice charge? Ah, I suppose technically he did obstruct justice. But realistically? I don’t see how it would stick. I mean, I’m not a prosecutor, so it’s not my call. But a lot of people saw that broadcast, and more people will probably see it on the eleven o’clock news, not to mention online. That’s a lot of potential jurors. And most of them will be parents.”</p>
<p>“They’ll put themselves in his shoes.”</p>
<p>“Exactly. They won’t think about Wesson’s crime. They’ll only see a desperate father. I don’t think the District Attorney will want to bring a case against Singer. It would look like they’re beating up on a man who’s already going through hell. There’s an election coming up, don’t forget.”</p>
<p>Dean nodded. “Right.” He had a sneaking suspicion that the District Attorney cared more about the upcoming election than Bobby Singer’s torment. He considered mentioning that Chad Robinson’s parents were suffering too, but thought better of it. A comment like that might provoke Henriksen. Dean had just escaped his boss’s wrath, so it probably wasn’t wise to push his luck. He said good night and left the office.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Back out in the bullpen, Jody was at her desk. She looked up as Dean approached. “I sent Singer home. So, what’s the verdict? Did you get transferred to Alaska?”</p>
<p>He shook his head. “Nah. I’m not going anywhere. I know, I know, you’re disappointed.”</p>
<p>She smiled at him. “I’ll get over it. I’m glad you’re sticking around, Winchester. I’ve gotten used to your lame jokes.”</p>
<p>He smiled back. “Well, thank you. Keeping you entertained is the real reason I come into work every day.”</p>
<p>“I knew it!” She clapped her hands once and rubbed them together. “So, back to work, then?”</p>
<p>Dean plopped into his chair. “Yep. And we’re back to square one. Again.”</p>
<p>“We’ve spent so much time on square one, I’m thinking of building a house on it.”</p>
<p>Dean grunted agreement.<em> Back to square one</em> meant back to the Wesson file. He reached for it and opened the folder. Wesson’s mug shot stared out at him. By now it felt like an old friend.</p>
<p>So much had happened in the last hour. When he stepped into Henriksen’s office, he had been so certain that his law enforcement career was over. Now he had been granted a reprieve, and he felt tired and exhilarated at the same time. Okay, so the appeal didn’t work, but maybe he could come up with a better idea. If they turned over enough rocks, sooner or later they’d find Sam Wesson.</p>
<p>He looked at Wesson’s picture, feeling a renewed sense of purpose spreading through him. <em>You can’t run forever, Sam. I’m going to catch you, no matter how long it takes.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sam sees Bobby's TV appearance. Later he meets another ally in his fight to clear his name.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is a little long and dialogue-heavy because I wanted to introduce Mara, who is going to take on Sam's case. </p>
<p>I'm not a lawyer, so any errors in my depiction of legal matters come from my imperfect grasp of the material I researched, and I hope you'll be lenient.</p>
<p>As always, much love to Kassy Scarlett for beta help and encouragement.</p>
<p>And thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments. So glad you're enjoying this as much as I am!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cas put a frozen pizza into the oven while Sam watched the evening news in the living room. He told himself that he was only checking for updates about the manhunt. He was <em>not</em> looking for a glimpse of Marshal Dean Winchester. Nope, not at all.</p>
<p>About five minutes into the broadcast, the anchor said, “There are some new details this evening on the ongoing search for escaped convict Sam Wesson.”</p>
<p>Sam’s body tensed. <em>Now</em> what?</p>
<p>“Our Action News team is at the Federal Building where the US Marshals are about to issue an appeal for Wesson to turn himself in.”</p>
<p>“Not gonna happen!” Sam snapped at the TV.</p>
<p>Cas entered the room. “Did I hear your name mentioned?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Looks like another media event. They’re gonna ask me to surrender,” Sam snorted and rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>The scene switched to a close-up of a podium set up outside an official-looking building. Sam’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Dean Winchester standing there. He wore a navy blue windbreaker over the snug-fitting black shirt Sam recognized from earlier that day. The jacket did little to conceal his muscular build.</p>
<p>Winchester’s lips were moving but Sam didn’t hear the words. Those cold green eyes had pinned him again and he couldn’t look away.</p>
<p>Damn it, what was it about Dean Winchester that made Sam feel like a fourteen-year-old again?</p>
<p>Cas sat down on the couch. “Oh hey, it’s your pal the marshal.”</p>
<p>Sam flinched. “He’s not <em>my</em> pal.”</p>
<p>He fidgeted on the couch. What did Cas mean by ‘pal’? Maybe he’d noticed Sam’s fascination with Winchester. How could he <em>not</em> notice, with the way Sam stared at the guy?</p>
<p>“Sam, are you okay?”</p>
<p>“Wha – what do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Every time Winchester shows up on TV, you get nervous. Jumpy. I noticed it this afternoon.”</p>
<p>His cheeks burned. <em>Oh God. He knows.</em></p>
<p>Cas gave him a kind smile. “It’s okay to admit that you’re afraid of him. He’s a threat to your freedom, after all.”</p>
<p>“Uh, yeah. He does scare me, Cas. He just looks so… I don’t know. <em>Relentless</em>. Like he has no mercy for anyone. Especially me.” Sam was grateful for the opening Cas had just given him. He didn’t mind talking about his fear of Winchester, as long as Cas didn’t ask him about his <em>other</em> feelings for the man.</p>
<p>He looked back at the screen, biting his lip. He was about to elaborate when Winchester stepped aside, giving way to a familiar figure. Sam’s eyes popped open wide.</p>
<p>“Bobby! Oh my God!”</p>
<p>His uncle stood at the podium, looking pale and tired. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, as if he had lost weight. Sam’s heart ached at the sight. Only a few days had passed since they had last seen each other at the jail, but Bobby appeared to have aged ten years since then. Sam had an impulse to walk up to the TV and touch his uncle’s image on the screen. He wished he could send a telepathic message to let Bobby know that he was safe.</p>
<p>A spasm of guilt wracked him. He had been so focused on eluding capture that he had never considered how his uncle must have suffered since his escape.</p>
<p>He turned up the volume and heard Bobby’s gruff voice declaring that he knew Sam was a good kid, that he knew Sam must be scared. “You probably feel like you’re all alone because your so-called friends all abandoned you.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded and gave a sad smile.</p>
<p>Bobby went on. “Sam, you’re the only family I’ve got and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Please know that I haven’t abandoned you. And I never will. Don’t ever forget that.”</p>
<p>Tears welled in Sam’s eyes. “I won’t, Bobby.”</p>
<p>The scene tugged at Sam’s heart, but something didn’t feel right. Bobby was not one to talk about his feelings. Sam knew his uncle loved him, but he had learned from an early age that Bobby’s philosophy was “show, don’t tell.” He was more likely to demonstrate his affection by stocking the fridge with Sam’s favorite food, or surprising him with a book by his favorite author, rather than making a big emotional speech. He dismissed such speeches as ‘chick flick crap.’</p>
<p>And Sam was okay with that, because he could read and interpret Bobby’s subtle expressions of love. His uncle’s example had taught him that people’s actions counted more than words. The events of the past year had reinforced this lesson. The people who had let him down the most were talkers, not doers.</p>
<p>This appeal couldn’t be Bobby’s idea. It just wasn’t his style. He must have been coerced into doing it. Did Winchester threaten him? Bobby had nothing to do with Sam’s escape, so the marshal had no leverage there. He had probably just played on Bobby’s one weak spot – his concern for Sam.</p>
<p>There was something sleazy about that, and all of a sudden Sam didn’t want to kiss Marshal Dean Winchester anymore. In fact, he had an urge to punch the guy in the nose.</p>
<p>“They must really be desperate,” Cas observed.</p>
<p>Sam was about to agree when Bobby’s voice suddenly rose to a shout:</p>
<p>“Sam, I know you’re innocent! You didn’t kill that boy and I’m not going to stand here and pretend that you’re some mad dog killer. The jury made a stupid decision and that jackass Chuck Shurley gave you a shitty defense!” The tape delay bleeped out the word <em>shitty</em>, but Sam had no trouble filling in the blank.</p>
<p>“He called out the lawyer!” Cas laughed and clapped his hands. “Oh Sam, I like your uncle.”</p>
<p>Bobby continued to rant. “They’ll never admit they were wrong. They’d rather let you die in that hellhole first. Don’t turn yourself in, son. <em>Don’t do it!</em>”</p>
<p>Sam whooped and pumped his fist. “<em>That’s</em> the man I know! Good for you, Bobby! Stick it to ‘em!”</p>
<p>Cas pointed at the TV. “Look at Winchester’s face! He wasn’t expecting that.”</p>
<p>As Bobby continued to rant, the camera zoomed in on the marshal. His mouth gaped open and the color had drained from his face. He looked like a bee had stung him.</p>
<p>Sam turned to Cas, grinning. “He thought he was gonna push my uncle around? I <em>knew</em> Bobby didn’t come up with this TV idea by himself. He wouldn’t sell me out like that.”</p>
<p>He glanced back at the screen in time to see Winchester and his lady partner escorting Bobby away from the podium. Sam’s grin faded as he saw how their hands gripped his uncle’s arms. “Don’t hurt him, you bastards.”</p>
<p>The scene shifted back to the studio and the anchor started droning on about some other story. Sam let out a long exhale. “Wow.”</p>
<p>Cas shut off the TV. “Your uncle has guts. He stuck it to Winchester <em>and</em> your lawyer!”</p>
<p>Sam nodded. “Yeah.” He smiled. “Shurley’s gonna be <em>pissed</em>. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”</p>
<p>“Which brings me to my little bit of news,” said Cas. “I spoke to Mara earlier. She’s going to call us at seven. We’ll talk about your case.”</p>
<p>“Really? That’s great.”</p>
<p>“That’ll give us just enough time to eat. Pizza will be ready in ten minutes.”</p>
<p>*                   *            *</p>
<p>After dinner, Cas set out bottles of water, pens and a notepad while Sam did the dishes and left them to dry. He rejoined Cas at the table and they made small talk while they waited for Mara to call. His pulse was racing. Between the buzz from seeing Bobby’s little rebellion against Winchester, and the anticipation of a possible new ally, he could barely sit still.</p>
<p>At exactly seven o’clock Cas’ phone rang. “Hey, Mara. Thanks for taking the time to talk to us.”</p>
<p>“Hi Cas. Happy to do it.”</p>
<p>“I’m putting you on speaker. Sam Wesson, allow me to introduce legal ace Mara Daniels.”</p>
<p>Mara laughed. “Legal ace. I like that. I should put that on my business cards. Hi, Sam, nice to meet you.”</p>
<p>“Hi, Mara. Nice to meet you too.” Sam toyed with a pen. Nerves jittered in his stomach.</p>
<p>“So, Cas told me a little bit about your situation. I’m very sorry for everything that’s happened to you.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.”</p>
<p>“Now, before we begin, let me just say that I can’t guarantee any results for you. But I will do whatever I can to help you.”</p>
<p>“I understand. I appreciate anything you can do for me.”</p>
<p>“No problem. Please tell me what happened with your case, starting with the night of the murder.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Sam looked at Cas, who smiled and gave him a thumbs up.</p>
<p>He nodded and smiled back, took a deep breath and launched into the narrative for the second time in less than a week. He stuck to the murder and the trial, sensing that Mara wouldn’t be interested in the details of his escape. As before, his emotions surged when he recounted Chuck Shurley’s questionable moves, such as the missed opportunities to challenge Detective Morgan’s testimony, or the failure to bring up Chad’s tendency to leave the apartment door unlocked. Mara seemed to understand how he felt and didn’t rush him when he needed to take a moment to compose himself.</p>
<p>Even with the occasional pause, the story didn’t take very long to recount. When he was done, he sat back, sighed and rubbed his eyes.</p>
<p>“Thank you for telling me, Sam. I know this was hard for you. I wrote down some questions while you were talking. Do you need to take a break before I start?”</p>
<p>“No, Mara. I’m okay. Go ahead.”</p>
<p>“Okay. First of all, are you sure you didn’t talk to anyone at the library? Even to say hello?”</p>
<p>“I’ve gone over it and over it in my mind, and nothing stands out.”</p>
<p>“Were you there every night?”</p>
<p>“My schedule was the same every day that semester. Classes all morning, then lunch, then I worked at the college bookstore from one to five. I got off at five and went straight to the library. I always left at around eight and went back to the apartment.”</p>
<p>“You never deviated from that routine? Always left at eight?”</p>
<p>“It was always the same. I left at eight to go home and have some dinner. And then I’d call Jess, my, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Well, she <em>was</em> my girlfriend.”</p>
<p>“Did you see her after leaving the library?”</p>
<p>“Not during the week. We both had heavy course loads and part-time jobs that semester, so we didn’t have time to see each other until the weekend. But we talked on the phone every night.”</p>
<p>Sam’s face flushed hot as he remembered how often those calls turned into phone sex, always at Jess’ instigation. God, with her angel face you’d think she’d never had a sexual thought in her life, but she could be incredibly creative when it came to talking dirty. He’d always been more than willing to play along.</p>
<p>She’d known exactly which buttons to push, and she loved to build little fantasies around his favorite kinks. Her cooing, teasing voice would have made him rock hard even if she had recited the Gettysburg Address. It didn’t take long for her to reduce him to a panting, keening mess. She’d especially enjoyed making him beg for permission to come. He loved how she brought out the submissive in him. And when the weekend came and they finally got together...</p>
<p>Things began to stir down below. <em>Oh no way. </em>With an effort, he pushed aside the extremely inappropriate thoughts. It would be too mortifying to pop a boner with a priest sitting a few feet away. Later, when he was alone in bed, he could jerk himself raw if he wanted to. Right now, he had to focus on this conversation with Mara. His future was at stake.</p>
<p>“So, anyway, that was my routine,” he said. His voice wasn’t quite steady. He opened a water bottle and gulped almost half of it.</p>
<p>“Did you check out any books the night of the murder?”</p>
<p>“All the times I visited the library are kind of blurring together. I know I was working on a term paper for my American Lit class a week or so before the murder. I had a list of books I wanted to research. I know I checked out at least one of them and I put another one on reserve.” <em>Was it that night?</em></p>
<p>Sam rubbed his forehead, trying to coax forth a memory. Nothing came.</p>
<p>He hissed with frustration. “I can’t remember if I checked out a book that night. I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it, Sam. In light of what happened later that evening, it’s perfectly understandable that you can’t remember a detail like that. I’ll follow up with the library. I may need your written consent to have a look at those records.”</p>
<p>“You’ll have it.”</p>
<p>“Excellent. How about this? Did you sit in the same place every night?”</p>
<p>“Come to think of it, I did.” Sam’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t expected that question. “I always sat in the same area: first floor, east side. It was closest to the copier.”</p>
<p>“Good,” she said. “That increases the chances that someone saw you. I can start by canvassing the library staff. I don’t think it will be possible to track down any students who were there that night. It’s been over a year and a lot of them have probably graduated, but most of the staff should still be there. Whether it’s a bar or a library, staffers tend to remember regulars even if they never speak with them. I find it hard to believe that <em>nobody</em> saw you. Your attorney should have been able to find at least one person.”</p>
<p>“Between you and me, I don’t think he looked all that hard.” Sam shook his head. “You know, he never asked if I checked out any books.”</p>
<p>“Well, shame on him. At the very least he should have followed up with the staff. That’s Alibi 101. Rookie mistake.”</p>
<p>“He’s no rookie,” said Sam. “He told me that he’s been practicing law for twenty years.”</p>
<p>“Then shame on him twice. Once you get to a certain point in your career, you should have a pretty good grasp of how to play this game. When I get your file, I’ll go over it with a fine tooth comb. I am positive that I will find other mistakes.”</p>
<p>Sam didn’t doubt her. Chuck Shurley had only asked Sam if he had spoken to anyone that night and when Sam said he hadn’t, he didn’t pursue the subject. In just a few minutes, Mara had already demonstrated that she was in a completely different league.</p>
<p>Some tension loosened inside him. Maybe this was going to work out.</p>
<p>Ice clinked in a glass as Mara sipped a beverage. “Oh! By the way, I saw your uncle on the news earlier. Clearly he’s not a member of the Chuck Shurley Fan Club.”</p>
<p>“You noticed that too, huh?”</p>
<p>She chuckled. “Oh, I did. It was quite a show. Can’t say that I blame the man. Based on what you’ve told me so far, Shurley made some very iffy moves. Like, the prosecution made such a big deal that there was no forced entry. But if Chad left the door unlocked, the killer could have just walked right in! Shurley should have knocked that one out of the park.”</p>
<p>“I kept trying to make him see that. But he blew me off.”</p>
<p>“It would have been <em>so</em> easy to lay out an alternate theory of the crime. Look at what we’ve done in just a few minutes, Sam. We’ve established that you had a routine and you never strayed from it. Which brings us to my next question. How about Chad? Did <em>he</em> have a routine?”</p>
<p>Sam couldn’t help smiling. Shurley had never asked him about that, either. “Chad didn’t really have a normal schedule. He went to class when he felt like it. He used to have a social life, but in the months before he died his drug habit started getting out of control. He stopped hanging out with his friends. When he went out, he was pretty secretive about it. I, uh, don’t want to speak ill of the dead or anything, but… I think he was meeting his dealer. Other than that, he’d sit on the couch for hours, playing video games or watching ESPN. Sometimes he’d fall asleep there, and didn't even go to bed.”</p>
<p>“So he was usually at home while you were at the library?”</p>
<p>“That’s right.”</p>
<p>“Do you see where I’m going with this, Sam?”</p>
<p>Her point lit up Sam’s brain like a lightning bolt. “You’re saying that if anyone was watching, they would know when there was a window of opportunity for them to get at Chad.”</p>
<p>“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make you a patsy.”</p>
<p>Tension twisted his guts. “But why?”</p>
<p>“That is what the police should have asked. But they were too happy to accept you as the prime suspect.”</p>
<p>Sam snorted. “Hell, they didn’t just accept it. They ate it up with a spoon.”</p>
<p>“It’s a little too perfect. The clean cut honor student who snapped one day and committed a horrific crime. I’m surprised Netflix hasn’t made a documentary about you yet.”</p>
<p>“Maybe they’re waiting for me to get caught first.”</p>
<p>“They can keep waiting,” muttered Cas.</p>
<p>Sam flashed him a smile.</p>
<p>Ice clinked again as she took another sip. “Tearing Shurley’s case apart is the key to clearing you. Proving incompetent representation looks like a no-brainer. We found at least one mistake and I’m sure there are others. I can’t wait to get at your case file. I like being proved right.”</p>
<p>Sam grinned. Mara’s passion was infectious. “But Mara, what if it isn’t just simple incompetence? I mean, think about it. I get framed for murder and I just <em>happen</em> to get a bad defense?”</p>
<p>“Hm. That is a rather big coincidence, isn’t it? I hate coincidences.”</p>
<p>“What if Shurley is crooked?” He briefly outlined what Tiny had told him.</p>
<p>Mara’s excitement jumped another notch. “Very interesting! This opens up a whole new line of inquiry, Sam. If he’s a crook, then there’s a strong chance that he was in on the frame. If so, then he knows who killed Chad. Or who had him killed.”</p>
<p>“So maybe Tiny was right, and Shurley was paid to screw my case.”</p>
<p>“If he was paid off, who paid him and why? Now <em>that</em> is the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”</p>
<p>“Tiny said that Chad must have pissed off someone. Maybe it had to do with drugs?”</p>
<p>“Possible. Another avenue of inquiry for me to explore. But proving it is going to be a challenge. Lucky for you, I <em>love</em> a challenge.”</p>
<p>“If he’s corrupt, that can only strengthen my appeal. Right?”</p>
<p>“Yes. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We can speculate till the cows come home, but we need proof, not just jailhouse gossip. I can make some discreet inquiries about Shurley. Emphasis on <em>discreet</em>. I don’t want him to sue me for defamation.”</p>
<p>“He’s enough of a jerk to do it.”</p>
<p>“That’s why I need to be careful. But it is worth looking into. I have an investigator on my team. Her name’s Ellen Harvelle. She’s an ex-cop and she hates corruption as much as I do. She used to work narcotics, so she knows that world pretty well. She can work her contacts, shake a few trees, see what falls out.”</p>
<p>Sam relaxed a little more. He liked Mara’s energy. She sounded like she was willing to fight for him.</p>
<p>“So Mara, do you think I’ve got a chance for an appeal?”</p>
<p>“Ah. Speaking of challenges. There’s a small problem.”</p>
<p>A cold feeling spread through him. “A problem?”</p>
<p>Cas frowned at the phone. “What’s wrong, Mara?”</p>
<p>“It’s called the fugitive disentitlement doctrine. The Supreme Court established it in the nineteenth century, in <em>Smith v. United States</em>. Basically, what it means is that a fugitive from justice may not seek relief from the judicial system at the same time that he’s evading its authority. In the original case, the court’s argument was that as long as the fugitive stays on the run, the court has no power over him. When a court rules, you have to submit to its authority ‒ but when you’re on the run you’re outside the system, with no incentive to submit. Do you follow?”</p>
<p>“I think so.”</p>
<p>“Think of it this way. If the court affirmed your conviction, would you turn yourself in to serve a prison sentence? And if it ordered a new trial, would you turn yourself in when you know it’s possible you could be convicted again?”</p>
<p>“Hell no. I’d be crazy to do that.”</p>
<p>“Exactly. Later court cases expanded on this idea. The reasoning is that if the court allows a fugitive to appeal his conviction, it’s like they’re allowing him to dictate the terms of his surrender. Attempting to file an appeal while you’re on the run is viewed as showing contempt for the court’s authority.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I have contempt for it, all right,” muttered Sam.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Sam. I know this is not what you wanted to hear. But this doesn’t change my willingness to help you. I can still do the legwork. I can still check out Shurley. Ellen can work the drug angle.”</p>
<p>She paused. “Uh, speaking as an officer of the court, I have to ask you this. <em>Would </em>you consider turning yourself in?”</p>
<p>Sam probably should have expected the question but it still made him shudder. “I – I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“I know you’re scared. But I had to ask.”</p>
<p>“I understand.”</p>
<p>“I won’t push you on this. You don’t have to make a decision right this second. But think about it, okay?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I’ll think about it.” But Sam had already made up his mind.</p>
<p>“Great. We’ll revisit this topic another time. Now, Sam. One last item on our agenda. I think it might be a good idea for me to talk to your uncle. He can help me get your case file.”</p>
<p>“That does sound like a good idea.”</p>
<p>“Okay, then I’ll reach out to him. Would you like me to give him a message? I can’t reveal specific details about where you are, of course. Just a general update on how you’re doing. I’m sure he’s worried. He’ll want to know if you’re eating, if you have a place to sleep. I can ease his mind.”</p>
<p>“That would be great, Mara. I’d like that a lot. He deserves that peace.” Sam couldn’t keep the eagerness out of his voice. “You can tell him that I loved what he said on TV.”</p>
<p>“I’ll do that. Now, I don’t know your uncle, obviously. If I approached him, would he be suspicious?”</p>
<p>Sam sipped some more water, considering her question. Before this nightmare had happened, he would not have described Bobby as the suspicious type. But he was pretty sure that the shit storm of the past year had changed him, as it had Sam.</p>
<p>He said, “He’s been through a lot. His auto body business lost customers. His best friend Rufus stuck by him, but he was pretty much the only one. He mentioned that he got some hate mail and crank calls, but wouldn’t go into detail when I asked him about it. He said he didn’t want to add to my stress. I know he suffered. A lot of people have let him down.”</p>
<p>“Chuck Shurley most of all.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded. “Exactly. He might not be so eager to trust another lawyer. If you dropped in on him out of the blue and told him you were going to represent me, he might think you were running a scam, especially now that I’m kind of famous.”</p>
<p>“What if I told him something that only the two of you would know? That ought to prove that I’m really speaking on your behalf.”</p>
<p>“That’s a great idea.” Sam thought for a second, then broke into a big smile. “I’ve got it! Ask him if Bones misses me.”</p>
<p>“Bones?”</p>
<p>“Bobby’s dog. Well, he was my dog until I went away to college, but every time I came home he would jump all over me. He’d sleep at the foot of my bed. Wouldn’t let me out of his sight the whole time.” His throat tightened up and his eyes misted.</p>
<p>“That’s good, Sam. I’ll ask him.” Mara’s voice grew soft, as if she could sense Sam’s mood change. “Do you have your uncle’s contact information?”</p>
<p>Sam closed his eyes and fought to control his emotions. When he could speak again, he rattled off Bobby’s address. “I think he might have changed his phone number. The crank calls, you know.”</p>
<p>“Right. Under the circumstances, it probably makes sense for me to go see him in person anyway. They may have tapped his phone.”</p>
<p>“Oh crap, I never thought of that.”</p>
<p>“When it comes to the system, we always have to try and anticipate everything they might do to screw you. All right, Sam. Here’s my plan for the next couple of days. First, I’ll visit your uncle and arrange to get that file. Then I’ll let Ellen loose on the drug angle. Next comes the library canvass, I’ll flash your picture around and see if anyone remembers you.”</p>
<p>“Please, don’t show them my mug shot.” The request popped out of him without thinking. He bit his lip, certain that Mara would laugh at him.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t do that anyway, Sam. The mug shot would be prejudicial. I’ll use a normal photo of you. Something recent that shows you facing front. No profile. Hey, maybe your uncle could help with that?”</p>
<p>“We took a bunch of pictures the last time I went to see him, right before the semester started.” He felt a pang, remembering that one of those pictures was of him and Bones. <em>Will I ever see him or Bobby again? </em>He wiped away a tear.</p>
<p>“Great. I’ll ask him for a picture. I want him to be involved in this process as much as possible.”</p>
<p>“I do too.”</p>
<p>“Wonderful. The plan is taking shape, Sam. I’m sure other ideas will come up after I look at your file. Maybe I can punch a few more holes in Shurley’s work.”</p>
<p>“Let me know if I can help. Feel free to ask me anything.”</p>
<p>“Oh, absolutely. I’m not Shurley. I want your input every step of the way, Sam.” Mara paused, then added, “I’ll just ask you one favor. Never tell me anything about your location or what you’re doing. It’s better if I don’t know. If I need you to sign anything, like that library consent, Cas can be our go-between.”</p>
<p>“I’m happy to do that,” said Cas.</p>
<p>“I appreciate that. Just remember that we all have to be careful. There’s a lot at stake here.”</p>
<p>The priest chuckled. “Don’t worry about me, Mara. Of the three of us, I have the least to lose.”</p>
<p>“You really need to have more care for yourself, my friend. You may have taken a vow of poverty, but you still have something to lose.”</p>
<p>“<em>Fear of man will prove to be a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is kept safe.</em> Proverbs chapter 29, verse 25.”</p>
<p>“By all means, trust in the Lord. But the Lord gave you common sense, and you need to use it. If you get too cocky, you could make a mistake and the system will crush you. Please, be careful. People are counting on you.”</p>
<p>“Point taken.”</p>
<p>“Wonderful. Okay, Sam, I’m gonna sign off now. I’ll be in touch after I see your uncle. It was a pleasure speaking with you.”</p>
<p>“For me too. Thank you for everything, Mara.”</p>
<p>“You’re quite welcome. Don’t give up hope, okay?”</p>
<p>“Never.”</p>
<p>They all said their goodbyes and then Mara terminated the call. Cas sat back in his chair and smiled at Sam. “Well, what did you think?”</p>
<p>“I like her. I can see why you called her a warrior for justice.”</p>
<p>“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have in this fight. She never gives up. I know Ellen, too. She’s tough, just like Mara. I didn’t know her when she was a cop, but Mara tells me she had a sterling reputation.”</p>
<p>His smile faded. “Bad news about that fugitive doctrine. First time I ever heard of it.”</p>
<p>Sam shrugged. “Same here. I guess if I had actually made it to law school, I would have come across it sooner or later. But it kind of figures, doesn’t it? The system strikes again.”</p>
<p>“Well, the important thing is, she’s going to help you.” The priest paused, weighing his words. “Sam, if she can build a good enough case, would you consider turning yourself in? If it would help your appeal?”</p>
<p>Sam raked his fingers through his hair and let out a long sigh. “I don’t know, Cas. It’s just too uncertain, you know? Even with a strong case, appeals take years, and there’s no guarantee that a court would agree to hear me. And let’s say they do hear me. If they throw out my conviction, what if the District Attorney decides to try me again? I could end up right back where I started.”</p>
<p>He gave Cas a worried look. “I don’t want to be one of those guys you see on the news. The ones who spend twenty years in prison before their convictions are overturned. I’ve already lost one year of my life. Losing decades – it terrifies me. Years of being locked up, chained up, told what to do every second of the day. Surrounded by men who want to… You know. All that, on top of the knowledge that I didn’t belong there in the first place? It would break me.”</p>
<p>He sighed. “Tiny said I wasn’t tough enough for prison. He was right.”</p>
<p>“There is no shame in admitting that, Sam. Most people would have a rough time. I know I would.”</p>
<p>“Really? You always seem so chill about things.”</p>
<p>Cas shrugged. “Any ‘chill’ I may have, has to do with my faith. I trust the Lord to get me through any situation, no matter how unpleasant. But Mara was right. It doesn’t pay to be arrogant. Life has a way of cutting you down to size, know what I mean?”</p>
<p>Sam smiled at him. “Tell me about it.”</p>
<p>They sat quietly at the table, retreating into their own thoughts. Sam’s mind returned to that never-finished term paper. The subject was <em>As I Lay Dying</em>, by William Faulkner, and Sam had struggled to grasp the book’s major themes. He remembered feeling really anxious about finishing the paper on time and getting a good grade. As the due date approached, he’d even suffered a few sleepless nights.</p>
<p>It wasn’t just about keeping his GPA up so he could hold on to his scholarship. It was about mastering the material, proving to everyone that he belonged there. He had always been a high achiever, and he placed a lot of pressure on himself to stay at that level.</p>
<p>He’d give anything to return to those days when a term paper was the most important thing he had to worry about. But he could never go back to being the Sam Wesson of a year ago. His perspective on things had changed too much. After you spent enough time living with the daily fear that you might be assaulted, shanked, or written up by some prick like Newman just because he didn’t like your face, the prospect of getting a bad grade on a term paper just wasn’t that scary.</p>
<p>Mara might be able to pull off a miracle and clear his name. Sam hoped with all his heart that she could do it. But she couldn’t help him regain the innocence he had lost. That was gone forever, and he grieved its absence.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I learned about the fugitive disentitlement doctrine while I was doing my research. It was described in an issue of the Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology that I found online. When I read it I thought that it would be an interesting obstacle to throw in Sam's path. Nothing can ever be 100% easy for him. I described the doctrine as best I could, but please keep in mind that I'm not a lawyer.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As Dean tries to bounce back after the Bobby Singer fiasco, he and Jody continue to chase down leads in their search for Sam.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to my beta Kassy Scarlett for her continuing help and encouragement.</p>
<p>Also, thanks to you readers for your kudos and your kind comments. You give me the juice that I need to push on.</p>
<p>This chapter is a kind of bridge to the second act of the story. We're one step closer to that first meeting between Sam and Dean. Right now it looks as if that will happen in Chapter 12.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean walked into the office, feeling tired and out of sorts. The Bobby Singer debacle happened two days ago and he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep since then. He was pushing himself at the office, burning long hours as he caught up on paperwork and chased down leads on the phone. It was exhausting work, but at least it kept his mind occupied. At the end of the day, he’d go home, gobble a quick dinner, and shower before falling into bed. But sleep eluded him as he tossed and turned, trying to come up with some new strategy for bringing in Sam Wesson. At some point, he’d drift into a light, unsatisfying slumber until the alarm buzzed him awake at five-thirty and he would rise from bed to do it all over again.</p>
<p>He was getting over the embarrassing Singer incident, although he’d get over it a lot faster if he could make some progress on finding Wesson. Dean couldn’t shake the idea that he was missing something, but he had no idea what it was. Sometimes, he was tempted to agree with Jody: the kid was a magician. He’d had a lot more luck than someone in his position should have. But it had to run out at some point. Didn’t it?</p>
<p>Jody was on the phone when he came in. She glanced up at him and they exchanged good morning nods. As he sat down at his desk, he noticed her irritated frown and tense posture. Evidently, the conversation was not going well.</p>
<p>“We have plenty of background, Professor. What we need are <em>leads</em>. Do you have <em>any </em>information about where he might have gone?” Her manner was more abrupt than usual. She glared at the phone as she rubbed her forehead with her free hand.</p>
<p>A brief pause as she listened. Her glare deepened and Dean guessed that the answer was <em>no</em>.</p>
<p>“All right, then. Thank you for calling. If Sam does reach out to you, please call us.” She hung up and groaned. “Well, that was ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”</p>
<p>“What was that all about?”</p>
<p>Jody sighed and reached for her coffee cup. “That was Professor Francis Coleman. Wesson’s faculty advisor. He called and said he might be able to help.”</p>
<p>“The kid reached out to him?”</p>
<p>Jody barked out a laugh. “That’s what I thought, but no such luck. He went on for almost five minutes about how Wesson was his best student, and how hurt and betrayed he felt when the kid was convicted. His exact words were, ‘I never suspected that he had such a dark, evil heart.’”</p>
<p>“Poetic,” said Dean.</p>
<p>“I finally managed to get a word in to ask if Wesson had contacted him. He said no and then went off on another tangent. Some bullshit about how the kid committed murder because he felt alienated from contemporary society. He started talking about Camus and existentialism. I had to cut him off before it turned into a friggin philosophy seminar. I was tempted to ask him if this stuff was going to be on the midterm.” She huffed a laugh.</p>
<p>Dean smiled. “You have more patience than I do.” He felt very grateful that he hadn’t been the one to catch the call. In his current mood, he probably would have told Professor Coleman to shove his Camus up his ass.</p>
<p>Jody sipped some coffee and went on. “So I asked him if he had anything useful for us and he said, ‘I gave you background on Sam. Wasn’t that useful?’” She shook her head. “What a time waster. I pity his students.”</p>
<p>“Most of them are probably just there to fulfill an elective.” Dean smiled, thinking about his own college days. “I liked most of my elective classes. I took oceanography in my sophomore year. Interesting stuff.”</p>
<p>“I took economics. Bored me to tears. I should’ve gone with psych or sociology. That’s more my speed.” Jody shrugged. “At least I didn’t have to deal with a windbag like Coleman. But I guess we should be grateful, Dean, because thanks to him, we now have a new angle for our investigation.”</p>
<p>“Do tell.”</p>
<p>“According to Professor Coleman, Wesson never would have committed murder if he’d had a better understanding of Nietzsche.”</p>
<p>Dean shook his head, smirking. “Another life ruined by an inadequate understanding of Nietzsche. If only Sam had studied a little harder.”</p>
<p>“Oh, and get <em>this</em>. The good professor is writing a book about Wesson. He’s going to put aside his moral indignation long enough to make a buck off the kid. True crime is hot right now, and he thinks he can put Wesson’s crime into a ‘philosophical context’.” She framed the words with air quotes. “I think that’s the real reason why he called us. He probably thought he’d get an inside view of the investigation for his book.”</p>
<p>“Sounds like it’ll be a real page-turner,” said Dean. “I can’t wait for it to come out. I’ll put it on my coffee table so I can impress my friends.”</p>
<p>Jody snickered. “I think I’ll stick to Jane Austen. The classics never go out of style.”</p>
<p>“True.” Dean sipped his coffee and took a bite of his blueberry muffin.</p>
<p>“Next item. Chuck Shurley left a message.”</p>
<p>Dean snorted. “What’s <em>he</em> want?”</p>
<p>“He’s pissed off about what Bobby Singer said on TV. You know, the ‘shitty defense’ remark. He’s considering a lawsuit.”</p>
<p>“Good luck with that. Why call us?”</p>
<p>“The message wasn’t clear. He either wants us to support him in the lawsuit or he wants to sue us too.”</p>
<p>Dean smirked at her. “Wouldn’t it be funny if he represented himself and lost?”</p>
<p>“Hilarious. You want to call him back?”</p>
<p>“Nah, I’ll pass. If he wants to sue us, he knows where to find us.”</p>
<p>“Okay. Want to take some of these other messages?”</p>
<p>“Sure.” He stood up and went over to Jody’s desk. “Give ‘em here.”</p>
<p>She handed him three phone memos, keeping two for herself. Dean returned to his desk and settled in. He took a sip of coffee and started reading the messages.</p>
<p>Today was a new day. He was determined to put the Bobby Singer fiasco behind him. <em>Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get back in the fight</em>, Henriksen had said. Sound advice. He intended to do just that. The boss was right: they would bring in Sam Wesson without his uncle’s help. They just needed a break. Maybe one of these phone messages would provide it.</p>
<p>*           *           *</p>
<p>An hour later, Dean’s hopeful mood had evaporated. None of the phone messages had yielded anything. He checked in with Morgan, who also had nothing new to report. Dean chewed on the last piece of his blueberry muffin and sat back in his chair, feeling glum again.</p>
<p>He thought about Chuck Shurley’s message. Was he really going to sue Bobby Singer? Sure, maybe slamming the guy on live TV was a foolish move, but Singer was releasing a lot of pent-up anger. When Dean and Jody interviewed Shurley, the attorney’s attitude had shifted from cavalier to defensive. It was off-putting, to say the least. If he had behaved that way towards Sam Wesson and his uncle, then Singer’s bitterness was even more understandable.</p>
<p>It occurred to Dean that Singer was the second person this week who’d badmouthed Chuck Shurley in front of him. Tiny Randall had also expressed a negative opinion about the attorney. Dean reached for the file, made himself flip past Sam Wesson’s mug shot, and went to the notes he had taken on Tiny’s interrogation.</p>
<p>There it was. Tiny had called Shurley a “crooked son of a bitch” who had sold Wesson out. Interesting word choice. Dean wanted to pursue it at the time, but Tiny had already invoked his right to counsel. With the excitement of the DNA discovery and the embarrassment of the Bobby Singer fiasco, Dean had forgotten all about the comment. But now it intrigued him all over again.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, he couldn’t ask Tiny for clarification. His attorney would smell an opportunity and demand a deal on the Newman murder in return for his client’s cooperation. That wasn’t going to happen. No matter how badly Dean wanted Tiny’s information, the killer didn’t deserve a free pass for murdering a Corrections officer. Even if he had something of value to offer, the District Attorney would never go for a deal. The optics would be terrible, even without an election coming up.</p>
<p>“Any luck?”</p>
<p>He started slightly. He hadn’t heard Jody approach his desk. “Nothing in the messages.”</p>
<p>“You’re back in the file again.”</p>
<p>“I just remembered what Tiny said about Shurley. You know, the ‘crooked son of a bitch’ remark. It got me thinking. Wondering if there was more to it.”</p>
<p>“So he’s not in Shurley’s fan club. What makes him different from Singer?”</p>
<p>“Well, the words he used just struck me as odd. He could’ve called him incompetent, or lazy, or stupid. But he said Shurley sold Wesson out. It makes me wonder if he knew more than he was telling.”</p>
<p>“He lawyered up, remember? You can’t ask him about it.”</p>
<p>“I’m aware of that. But maybe there are other ways to find out.”</p>
<p>Jody’s smile disappeared and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Dean, remember what we were talking about while we were driving to Smithfield?”</p>
<p>Dean sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You mean, about Sam Wesson getting into my head?”</p>
<p>“Isn’t he?”</p>
<p>“I’d just like to know why Tiny called Chuck Shurley a crooked son of a bitch. Why did he say that Shurley sold Wesson out? What if Shurley threw the case? Wouldn’t that change things?”</p>
<p>“Not really. Even if he threw the case, there’s nothing <em>we</em> can do about it, Dean.”</p>
<p>Her comment took him by surprise. It sounded so cold, so unlike Jody. Usually she was the one urging him to have more empathy.</p>
<p>He gave her a puzzled look. “So if we catch Wesson, we just put him in chains, throw his ass in jail and forget about him? On to the next fugitive?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Dean. We do that. Because it’s our job.”</p>
<p>“So you don’t think he might be innocent?”</p>
<p>Jody’s eyes narrowed. “I seem to recall someone telling me that we don’t work for the defense.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t answer the question.”</p>
<p>“What I think is irrelevant. Our job is to catch fugitives. Shurley’s conduct in Wesson’s case is outside the scope of our duties. That’s what appeals are for. Once Wesson is safely behind bars, he can get a new lawyer and file all the appeals he wants.”</p>
<p>“And if he gets shanked while he’s waiting to hear back on his appeal? You think Bobby Singer is pissed now? How do you think he’ll react if his nephew gets killed in prison? Especially if he didn’t even belong there in the first place.”</p>
<p>Jody threw up her hands. “Jesus, Dean, what is it with you and this kid anyway?”</p>
<p>Dean’s body tensed. “What kind of a question is that?”</p>
<p>“You resisted accepting the fingerprint evidence. Now you want to toss out a murder conviction based on an off-the-cuff comment from this psycho convict. Something is going on.”</p>
<p>Jody paused and looked around the office. People at nearby desks were trying a little too hard not to look interested in their conversation.</p>
<p>In a lower tone of voice, she continued, “You never had these kinds of dilemmas until this case. Until this kid. I warned you that this case might be affecting your judgment. I don’t know if it’s the puppy dog eyes or what, but he’s getting to you.”</p>
<p>“Now wait just one minute.” Dean began ticking points off his fingers. “First of all, my instinct was right on the Newman murder. The DNA proved that Wesson didn’t kill him. Second, I’m not looking to toss out the conviction. I’m just asking questions, that’s all. And third, Wesson is <em>not</em> ‘getting to me’. Whatever that means.” He also spoke in a low voice but it was a struggle to hold on to his temper.</p>
<p>He looked around at the nearby desks and then back at Jody. His voice dropped to a whisper, “Are you suggesting that I have a <em>crush</em> on Wesson?”</p>
<p>“What? No! You know me better than that.”</p>
<p>“Then what are you trying to say? I don’t want to fight with you, Jody, but if you have a problem with me, just spit it out.”</p>
<p>She sighed. “Maybe I misspoke. It’s been a frustrating couple of days. We got a quick win with Tiny, but then we hit a brick wall with Wesson.”</p>
<p>Dean nodded. His anger was beginning to subside. “All true. And, the Singer thing didn’t help.”</p>
<p>“I know it didn’t. He embarrassed you on live TV, so now you want a win. But this is a dead end.”</p>
<p>He managed a smile. “Hell, it probably is. If Tiny had just said that Shurley was a crap lawyer, I’d let it go. But he specifically used the word ‘crooked’. It suggests that Shurley threw the case. And if he did, then maybe the kid is innocent.”</p>
<p>“Or it suggests that Tiny was bored and decided to yank your chain. No cable TV in jail, so he has to amuse himself somehow.”</p>
<p>“Maybe. But it’s nagging at me, and when something nags at me, I have to nail it down one way or the other, just for my own peace of mind. Puppy dog eyes have nothing to do with it.”</p>
<p>“Forget I said that, okay?” Jody gave him a tired smile. “This case has been tough on both of us. I just don’t want to see you wreck your career by chasing shadows.”</p>
<p>She paused. “But you have a point about the word choice. It’s intriguing. We can’t ask Tiny to clarify, but we can dig into the file again. Maybe we can find something more to go on than Tiny’s fantasies or jailhouse rumors.”</p>
<p>Dean knew an olive branch when he saw one. He smiled and offered one of his own. “You know, there’s no law that says we can’t have two goals. We can look for a lead on how to catch Wesson, and try to answer my questions at the same time.”</p>
<p>“Those goals are kind of related anyway. Remember when I suggested that we try to get into his head?”</p>
<p>“You said if we cornered him, we might get him to surrender by convincing him that we’re on his side.”</p>
<p>“And if your instinct is true, then we really would be on his side.”</p>
<p>Dean relaxed. Now he and Jody were over the rough patch. This was a familiar pattern in their partnership. They’d have a disagreement, they’d talk it out, and then they were able to carry on.</p>
<p>She sat down in the chair at the other side of Dean’s desk. “Let’s go back to Tiny’s interrogation.”</p>
<p>He pushed over the file. “Here are my notes.”</p>
<p>They looked over the pages in silence for a couple of minutes. “Huh. Check this out.” He pointed at a page. “I got so distracted by what he said about Shurley that I missed this. See here where he said that he told Wesson not to follow him?”</p>
<p>“I see it.”</p>
<p>“Well, it might be a longshot, but… Tiny was caught in Smithfield, which was south of the crash site. What if Wesson ran in the opposite direction?”</p>
<p>Jody nodded. “North. What’s north of the crash site?”</p>
<p>“Let’s get a map.”</p>
<p>After some digging around they found a map of the state. Dean unfolded it and spread it across his desk.</p>
<p>Jody smoothed out the paper. “Okay. Here is where the van crashed. Right after they got off the main highway. Maybe ninety, a hundred miles northeast from us.” She pointed at a spot on the map. “And here is Smithfield. South of there.” She moved her finger southward on the map. “So, if Wesson ran in the opposite direction…”</p>
<p>She poked the map with her index finger. “There are two towns within twenty miles of the crash site. He could have easily made it to either town on foot. The closest one is Mapleton, about a mile and a half away from the crash site. And then about ten miles farther north is Pleasantville.”</p>
<p>Dean tapped the map. “We’ll reach out to the local law, see if they’ve seen or heard anything. We can flash his photo around, ask some questions. Maybe he got careless and made a mistake. Hell, it’s worth a shot. Remember David Berkowitz? New York cops caught him on a parking ticket.”</p>
<p>“I agree, it’s worth a shot.” Jody clapped her hands together and gave him an excited grin. “So! Next stop, Mapleton. And then Pleasantville.”</p>
<p>Dean nodded. “Maybe we’ll finally be able to move off of square one.”</p>
<p>This might be a useless hunch, or it might pay off. Either way, he was glad that they had a new focus. He had been in the office for two days, and he was looking forward to going out on the road. Given a choice, he preferred trying to make a break happen instead of waiting for a break to come to him.</p>
<p>The familiar thrill of the hunt was beginning to build inside him. He was always pumped at the prospect of capturing a fugitive. But there was something more to it this time. Sam Wesson had dominated his thoughts for days. And if this hunch paid off, Dean would finally get to meet him face to face. Never mind what he’d said to Jody – the thought of seeing those puppy dog eyes up close made his heart beat a little faster.</p>
<p>If – no, <em>when</em> – they caught Wesson, Dean wanted to be the one to put the cuffs on him and take him into custody. He wanted to sit down with the kid and talk to him – not just interrogate him, but really get to know him. He wanted to hear his story first hand. And if his other hunch paid off and Wesson turned out to be innocent, Dean wanted to help set him free.</p>
<p>And after he was free? That opened up possibilities that he hardly dared imagine.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Father Cas reaches out to his network in an attempt to transfer Sam to a safe house. Realtor Amelia Richardson offers to help.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is a little different. It has POV for three characters: Sam, Father Cas and Amelia.</p>
<p>Thanks once again to Kassy Scarlett for invaluable beta help.</p>
<p>And thank you to the readers for your kudos and lovely comments! You give me the juice I need to carry on.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two days after Sam’s conversation with Mara Daniels, she called to report that she had visited Bobby. His uncle was suspicious at first, but once she relayed Sam’s message, Bobby welcomed her into his house and bombarded her with questions. While he was disappointed that she couldn’t tell him where Sam was, he was relieved to hear that his nephew was healthy and safe.</p>
<p>“I was so worried that he was sleeping on the street and eating out of garbage cans,” he confided. “Thanks for easing my mind.”</p>
<p>Mara had obtained Sam’s file and was currently reading the trial transcript. Bobby provided her with a good recent photo of Sam, and she was planning to visit the library soon to question the staff.</p>
<p>“I’ll call you with a status report after I’m done at the library,” she said. “Going forward, I’ll meet with Bobby on a regular basis to update him on my progress, so if you ever want to give him a message, I’ll relay it for you.”</p>
<p>“That would be great, Mara. Thanks.”</p>
<p>“Oh, one more thing before I go, Sam. Bobby says that Bones does miss you.”</p>
<p>Sam laughed and thanked her before hanging up. Then he and Cas sat down to breakfast. The priest turned on the radio, and as they ate, they listened to the news, checking for updates about the hunt for Sam. They were surprised when all the stories focused on a scandal that had blown up overnight. Governor Nelson, who loved to brag about his reputation as a reformer, had been caught on a wiretap making several dates with high-priced call girls. There was rampant speculation about whether Nelson would be forced to resign.</p>
<p>Sam chuckled. “Looks like I’m yesterday’s news.”</p>
<p>“That could be a blessing, Sam. The sins of the ruling class may end up helping us.”</p>
<p>“How so?”</p>
<p>“Nobody’s talking about you because this scandal is dominating the news. We can use it as cover to move you to one of our safe houses.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Sam swallowed some coffee around a sudden lump in his throat.</p>
<p>Something must have shown in his expression, because Cas quickly added, “I don’t want to kick you out, Sam. I really enjoy your company. But the marshals are still hunting you, regardless of what our horny governor does. Moving you around makes sense. We’re tempting fate by keeping you here too much longer.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded. “You’re right. All it takes is one nosy neighbor to bring the heat down on me. But I’m still gonna miss you, Cas.” His eyes misted up and he had to look away.</p>
<p>Cas squeezed his arm. “I’m going to miss you too. But we’ll see each other again, I promise.” He finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. “When I get to my office, I’ll start making calls. I want to set something up for tonight.”</p>
<p>After Cas left, Sam did the dishes and put them away. Cas kept insisting that he didn’t expect him to do any housework, but Sam felt obligated. After everything the priest had done for him, doing a few chores seemed like a good down payment on what Sam owed him.</p>
<p>With the dishes out of the way, Sam thought about what to do next. Then he remembered Cas mentioning that he had a washer and dryer in the basement. Why not do the laundry?</p>
<p>He gathered all the clothes from the bathroom hamper and took them downstairs. Washing and drying them took a little less than two hours. When the clothes came out of the dryer, their warmth and scent were comforting and nostalgic. When he was in school, he did a wash once a week. Jess liked to tease him about how ‘domestic' he was, and sometimes she let him do her laundry too. He suspected that she knew he got a secret thrill from touching her lacy lingerie.</p>
<p>It was less enjoyable when Chad tried to sneak his own dirty clothes into Sam’s laundry bag.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Chad, I’m not handling your gross jockey shorts! Wash your own fucking clothes. I’m not your maid.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Dude, you’re already doing your girlfriend’s laundry. What’s the difference?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Because she’s my girlfriend and you’re a lazy slob.”</em>
</p>
<p>It was a stupid fight, one of many that they’d had, although certainly not the worst one. At his trial, the prosecutor argued that the cumulative effect of all those fights had finally caused Sam to snap and attack Chad. Sam thought it was a bullshit argument, but the jury found it convincing.</p>
<p>Shit. He didn’t want to think about this. He grabbed the basket of clothes and brought it upstairs.</p>
<p>The clothes came out so well, he decided to strip his bed and wash the sheets. His reasons for doing this weren’t entirely altruistic. The sheets had some embarrassing stains, courtesy of a dream he’d had last night. For once, the star of the dream wasn’t Jess, but a certain green-eyed US Marshal.</p>
<p>
  <em>He was handcuffed to a chair as Marshal Dean Winchester stood over him. “You’re my prisoner, Sam,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He unzipped Sam’s jeans and slipped his hand inside. Sam gasped as Winchester touched his hardening cock. “But I bet I can make you talk.” He began pumping Sam’s cock with maddening slowness. Before long, Sam was squirming in the chair, panting and begging as he thrust himself into the marshal’s hand.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Winchester stared at him, a cold smile curving his lips. “Thought you could get away from me? You’re mine, Sam.” It only took a few more strokes before orgasm struck him like a freight train, jolting him into wakefulness.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sam sat up in bed, gasping and drenched in sweat. His nerves were still tingling. He looked down and saw that he had jizzed all over himself. He groaned and rubbed his eyes.</em>
</p>
<p>The sight of the stained sheets made him feel a little dirty. Washing them was the right thing to do. Although he was sure that Cas wouldn’t shame him for having a wet dream, he still didn’t want the priest to see the evidence of it, or guess who had inspired it.</p>
<p>The dream-Winchester’s words echoed in his brain. <em>You’re mine, Sam.</em></p>
<p>He said aloud, “But I don’t want to be yours. I want to run as far away from you as I can.”</p>
<p>Even as he said it, he wondered if he would ever be able to outrun Marshal Dean Winchester.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>As soon as he was done with morning mass, Cas went into his office and began calling the network’s phone chain, using the code they had employed for years.</p>
<p>“We’re having a clothing drive for the homeless here at Saint Swithin’s, and I was wondering if you’d like to contribute.” (<em>I have someone who needs a safe house. Do you have any space available?</em>)</p>
<p>If the answer was <em>no</em>, Cas thanked them and hung up. But if they said <em>yes</em>, then he moved on to the next coded question.</p>
<p>“Oh, wonderful. I’m glad you can help. Would it be possible for you to come by the church this afternoon to discuss your donation? I can see you after I’m done with confessions.” (<em>Come see me in the confessional so I can give you the details.</em>)</p>
<p>The confessional was the only place where he felt he had complete privacy to conduct network business. Anyone (such as Mrs. Butters, the church secretary) might overhear what was said in his office, but nobody would dare try to eavesdrop on a confession. He was going to use every advantage to protect Sam.</p>
<p>Cas struck out with his first two calls, but he hit pay dirt on the third one. He set up a three o’clock meeting with realtor Amelia Richardson, who said she had a space suitable for his purposes. Amelia was a longtime friend, and she had been with the network for six years.</p>
<p>Three o’clock came, and right on time, Amelia entered the confessional. Her soft voice came through the screen. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two months since my last confession.”</p>
<p>Things proceeded in the usual manner. Amelia rattled off a brief list of sins, Cas assigned a penance and they said the standard closing prayers.</p>
<p>“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,” he concluded.</p>
<p>“His mercy endures forever,” she whispered.</p>
<p>“Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”</p>
<p>“Thanks be to God.”</p>
<p>There was a brief silence, and then Amelia said, “So Father, I understand you have a client?”</p>
<p>“That’s right. And you have a property available?”</p>
<p>She snorted. “Oh yeah. The house out on Mockingbird Drive. Thanks to the lousy market, I haven’t shown it in over a month.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope things pick up soon.”</p>
<p>“Thanks. So, what time do you want to bring the client?”</p>
<p>“Ah. This client is a little different. It would be safer if you didn’t meet each other.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean, <em>safer</em>? Is there a threat?”</p>
<p>There was a note of fear in her voice. Cas understood what sparked it. A year ago, a member was driving a client to a new location when she spotted a car tailing them. The client recognized it as her ex-husband’s. It had taken over an hour to lose him and by then the poor client was a wreck. The ex never confronted them directly and they managed to complete the move without further trouble. Still, it had been a frightening couple of hours. They were never able to find out how he’d picked up her trail, and the incident had made all the members extra wary.</p>
<p>“No, no, you aren’t in any danger. It’s kind of a delicate situation. The less you know, the better.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Cas could hear the doubt in that one word. For a second, he was afraid that Amelia would back out. Participation in the network was voluntary, and members didn’t have to shelter anyone if they didn’t feel comfortable doing it. He decided not to tell Amelia that the client was an escaped convict. If she knew this, she would definitely bail.</p>
<p>The silence stretched out for several seconds. Finally she said, “Okay. I’m in.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Amelia. Can you leave the key under the mat?”</p>
<p>“I’d rather not, Father. There’s been some vandalism down at the site since construction stopped on the development. Bunch of kids acting stupid. If they get hold of the key, they’ll treat the house like Party Central. They’ll trash it. Can I just hand you the key tonight?”</p>
<p>Amelia had a point. There was no sense in asking her to make the house vulnerable to vandalism. “Okay, that’s fine. I’ll meet you at the house at nine.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be there. I’m glad you understand, Father.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Amelia. You’re really helping the client.”</p>
<p>“Sure. I’ve got to get back to the office.”</p>
<p>“Okay. See you tonight.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Cas came home a few minutes before six and told Sam that he had found a safe house. “I can’t tell you much about the woman from our network,” he said. “Just that she sometimes has access to properties that can house a client for a night or two. I’ll pack a go bag for you and we’ll drive out there at around eight-thirty.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded. “Sounds good.”</p>
<p>It was full dark by eight-thirty and after checking to make sure the street was clear, Cas hustled Sam out of the house to his beat-up Hyundai. Sam was dressed in black sweatpants, a long sleeved black shirt, and a black hoodie with the hood pulled up over a baseball cap. He moved quickly, slouching slightly to disguise his height. He felt like a walking bullseye.</p>
<p>They didn’t make a sound as Cas unlocked the car and Sam slid into the backseat. Per the priest’s instructions, he slumped down and pulled a blanket over himself. His body was too long for him to lie full length on the seat and his cramped position quickly became uncomfortable.</p>
<p>Cas climbed in and started the car. “It’s not very far, Sam. Just about ten minutes.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Sam’s voice was muffled by the blanket.</p>
<p>Cas pulled out of the spot. He drove carefully, observing the speed limit as he took a somewhat circuitous route to the site, just in case they were being followed. He glanced in the rearview mirror frequently but saw no signs of a tail. He didn’t really expect one, but the ex-husband incident had made him cautious.</p>
<p>Finally, he turned onto Mockingbird Drive. This was the location of the never-finished River Walk development, an ambitious real estate project begun in 2018 but abandoned six months ago when the market experienced an unexpected downturn. There was only one finished house on the street, at Number 57. It was a model that was designed to show prospective buyers what their completed house would look like. Amelia had once told him that she showed the house from time to time because her company still hoped to sell it.</p>
<p>The street looked like a ghost town, deserted and silent. Farther up Mockingbird, a half-built house sat abandoned, its wooden frame skeletal against the harsh streetlight. The lumber was covered with spray painted graffiti and the lot was overgrown with weeds. The rest of the street was empty.</p>
<p>It was a shame that the downturn had killed River Walk. Located just ten minutes from downtown Pleasantville, it was a beautiful area, with access to nearby hiking trails, including one that led to the Delacorte River waterfront. The development had been promoted as ideal for young families just starting out. If the market ever recovered, perhaps that dream could still be realized.</p>
<p>Cas parked at the beginning of the street, about fifty yards from Number 57. He saw Amelia standing on the front stoop, looking in his direction.</p>
<p>“Okay, Sam,” he said. “She’s there. I’ll get the key and once she leaves, we’ll go inside.”</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>Cas climbed out of the car and walked the rest of the way down the street. It was a chilly night and he zipped up his windbreaker.</p>
<p>Amelia stood perfectly still, watching him approach. She wore a beat up leather jacket over a blue sweatshirt and faded jeans. Her hands were jammed in her pockets. She was trying to look casual but as Cas approached, he could see the tension in her stiff posture and the tight set of her jaw. Her face was pale in the streetlight.</p>
<p>“Father.” She didn’t give him her usual warm smile.</p>
<p>“Amelia. Thank you for doing this.”</p>
<p>“This doesn’t feel right,” she said. “Usually we get to meet the client.”</p>
<p>“I know it’s out of the ordinary. But this is a special situation.”</p>
<p>She sighed. “All right, Father. I trust you.” She pulled a keyring from her pocket and handed it to him. “I had a copy made, so you don’t have to worry about returning this. After the client has moved on, you can just throw it down the sewer or something.”</p>
<p>Amelia glanced at Cas’ car, then back at him. “The house is furnished. It has electricity and running water, but no heat or gas. There’s no food and nothing to cook with. If your client brought food, please tell her not to make a mess. I still have a shot at selling this house, but it has to be broom clean.”</p>
<p>Cas decided not to tell Amelia that the client was a man. “I understand. We’ll be gone after two nights, tops, and we’ll clean up after ourselves. It’ll be like no one was ever here.”</p>
<p>She managed a smile. “Good luck to your client.”</p>
<p>“Thanks again, Amelia. I’ll see you at mass on Sunday?”</p>
<p>“We’ll be there.” She held out her hand and Cas shook it. Her hand was cold.</p>
<p>“Get home safe.”</p>
<p>“You too.” She walked away, up the street to a blue Acura that was parked near the unfinished house. Cas watched her get into the car and drive off. Only then did he turn around and walk back to his own car.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Once he and Sam were inside the house, Cas turned on the living room light and looked around. The room had a high ceiling and a large picture window that looked out onto the street. It was furnished with a sofa, easy chair and end table. The walls were painted robin’s egg blue and the carpet was darker blue.</p>
<p>“Not bad,” he said. “This would make a nice home for someone.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Sam pulled down the hood, took off the cap and jammed it into his pocket.</p>
<p>“You should turn off the light after I leave.” Cas smiled. “You’re not scared of the dark, are you Sam?”</p>
<p>Sam chuckled. “No. I’m good.”</p>
<p>“Great. I’ve put together a little kit for you.” He opened a plastic bag. “Change of underwear. Clean socks. A pack of hand wipes. Couple of bottles of water. Some energy bars. A turkey and Swiss sandwich. And this.” He pulled out a flip phone.</p>
<p>“It’s a burner phone. My number is programmed into it. It’s very basic, no internet.” He put the phone into the bag and gave the bag to Sam. “Keep it with you at all times but only use it to call or text me. I know you might be tempted to call your uncle, but please don’t. It’s just not safe.”</p>
<p>“I won’t.”</p>
<p>“All right. This is only temporary, Sam. I’ll try to find a new place for you tomorrow. And another place after that, and so on. The idea is to keep moving. I know it won’t be comfortable, but it’s –”</p>
<p>“Necessary,” Sam finished.</p>
<p>“Yes.” They hesitated, looking at each other. The moment of goodbye was at hand.</p>
<p>Cas sighed heavily. “Sam. I know this will be difficult for you. But you’re strong. You’ve been through so much already, and you survived. I <em>know</em> you can get through this.”</p>
<p>Sam shrugged. “I’ll get through it. I have no choice. I’m not giving up.”</p>
<p>Cas clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Would you like to pray with me before I go?”</p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>“You know the Lord’s Prayer?”</p>
<p>“I think I remember it from when I was a kid.”</p>
<p>“Okay. I’ll start. Jump in any time.” Cas kept his hand on Sam’s shoulder. He took a deep breath and began, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”</p>
<p>He continued the prayer in a low voice and after a second or two, Sam bowed his head and joined in. He hadn’t said the prayer since childhood, but the words came back easily.</p>
<p>Praying reminded him of going to church with his mom and dad, and how happy they had all been together. He wondered how his life might have turned out if they hadn’t died in that car crash. Would things have been different? Maybe this nightmare never would have happened. His voice wavered a little as emotion overtook him.</p>
<p>The prayer was short and by the time they said <em>Amen</em> Sam had regained control of himself.</p>
<p>“How are you feeling?” said Cas.</p>
<p>“Good. Calm.”</p>
<p>“Glad to hear it.” Cas stepped forward and wrapped Sam in a bear hug. Sam staggered a little, surprised by the priest’s strength, before reciprocating the hug. A sense of peace and contentment filled him.</p>
<p>They stood like that for several moments, hugging and lightly slapping each other on the back. Sam didn’t want to let go. He didn’t know what his future held, but he guessed that it wouldn’t have many hugs.</p>
<p>Finally, Cas stepped away. Tears glistened in his eyes. “If you need anything at all, you call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter. Okay?” His voice was rough.</p>
<p>“Okay, Cas.” Sam smiled and raked his fingers through his hair. “Thanks again. For everything. I’ll never be able to repay you.” His voice almost broke again.</p>
<p>“You know how you can repay me.”</p>
<p>“Help someone else. I remember.” Sam wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “Ah. I’d better let you go before I start bawling.”</p>
<p>“All right, Sam. I’ll be in touch. Stay safe.”</p>
<p>“I will.” He watched the priest leave and then turned off the light. The house descended into silent darkness. The streetlight outside provided just enough light for him to make his way to the couch. He put the go bag on the floor and sat down, letting out a long sigh.</p>
<p>It was going to be a long night. With no TV and nothing to read, he only had his thoughts to keep him company. He’d gotten used to that kind of boredom when he was in jail. In the early days, he thought he might go insane without his phone or his laptop to distract him. Over time, he’d learned to let his mind provide its own entertainment, with endless mental lists of his favorite songs, favorite books, favorite foods, and so on. Perhaps he could use that skill again now.</p>
<p>
  <em>How about favorite fantasies?</em>
</p>
<p>Now there was an idea. His thoughts returned to his dream. The handcuffs around his wrists. Marshal Dean Winchester’s hand on his cock. His cold, confident smirk. <em>You’re mine, Sam.</em></p>
<p>A shiver rippled down his spine. “Well, I guess I could be yours just for tonight,” he whispered.</p>
<p>He closed his eyes and surrendered to the fantasy.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Cas walked briskly up the street, towards his car. He hoped he had done the right thing in moving Sam to the safe house. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t keep the kid cooped up in the spare room for the rest of his life. Tomorrow, he would continue working his contacts and looking for the next place to move Sam. He also needed to attend to some church business he had been putting off. Neglecting his duties would arouse suspicion.</p>
<p>He was so lost in thought that he didn’t see Amelia Richardson duck behind a tree across the street from Number 57.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>This safe house transfer had felt wrong from the start. The network members always met the client, just to ensure a smooth transfer. But Father Cas hadn’t wanted Amelia anywhere near this client. He’d insisted that it would be safer if they didn’t meet. That set off warning bells.</p>
<p>The breach of protocol bothered her all day, and the priest’s secretive manner this evening had made the warning bells ring louder. After driving away from the house, her curiosity got the better of her. She parked at the end of the block and walked back, taking up a vantage point in a group of trees across the street from Number 57. From there, she could see into the living room.</p>
<p>It was a shock to see Father Cas and the tall, lanky boy standing together in the living room. The network’s clients were almost exclusively women. In all her years with the network she had only helped one male client, and he had been considerably older than this boy.</p>
<p>Then the priest and the boy hugged each other and her eyes went wide. Now she understood why Father Cas had been so mysterious. He was using the safe house for a tryst with this boy. Amelia had known him for years, and she had never suspected that he might be gay.</p>
<p>Part of her wanted to storm into the house and break up their assignation before things got too steamy. She didn’t care if Father Cas was gay, but it offended her to see him using the safe house to conduct his little affair. The network was too important to be used in such a sleazy way.</p>
<p>
  <em>Can’t you go to a motel like everyone else?</em>
</p>
<p>Her attention turned to the boy. She could see why the priest had fallen for him. He was handsome, tall and lean, with a gorgeous mop of dark hair that tumbled over his forehead. He was much younger than the priest – probably in his early twenties.</p>
<p>He looked familiar. She’d seen him somewhere, and recently. Not in Pleasantville. She would have remembered seeing such a cutie around town.</p>
<p>Father Cas and the boy ended their embrace and stepped back, facing each other and smiling. Their lips moved as they spoke to each other. Oh <em>yuck</em> ‒ were they going to have sex right there in the living room?</p>
<p>Maybe she should take off. She was no voyeur. She already felt a little creepy just standing here. Let them screw each other if they wanted to, as long as they cleaned up after themselves.</p>
<p>The boy raked his fingers through his hair and there was something to the tilt of his head…</p>
<p>Amelia caught her breath as the pieces clicked into place. She hadn’t seen him in Pleasantville. She had seen his picture on TV.</p>
<p><em>Oh my God. Can it be? </em>Amelia dug her smartphone out of her purse. Her hands shook so badly she was afraid she’d drop it.</p>
<p>She raised the phone and turned on the camera. The boy appeared on her screen. She zoomed in on his face and snapped a few pictures.</p>
<p>She shoved the phone back into her purse and scooted behind the tree, just as the front door opened. Father Cas left the house and walked up the street without a glance in her direction.</p>
<p>Amelia stood frozen behind the tree, watching him walk to his car and climb in. She held her breath as he started the engine and pulled out. He made a U-turn and headed back to town. Slowly, the sound of his car faded away and everything was silent again.</p>
<p>Across the street the light went out at Number 57. She made herself count to one hundred before stepping out from behind the tree. She scurried down the street, back to her car, conscious of the sound of her footsteps the entire way. Her heart pounded and she risked a look over her shoulder. Nobody was following her.</p>
<p>Back in her car, Amelia took out her phone and looked at the pictures. <em>Is it really him? </em>She wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Her phone was old and its camera’s resolution wasn’t super-sharp.</p>
<p>She opened up Google and typed <em>fugitive</em>. The story was at the top of the search results. HUNT FOR ESCAPED INMATES CONTINUES. She clicked on it, scanned the story and scrolled down to what she really wanted.</p>
<p>There it was. His mug shot. Dark eyes drilled into her. <em>Psycho eyes.</em></p>
<p>She compared the mug shot to her smartphone pictures. Mug Shot Boy was clean shaven while Smartphone Boy was scruffy, but the high cheekbones, strong jaw and pouty mouth were the same. Smartphone Boy’s hair was longer, but the dark color and the bangs flopping over his forehead were the same. Take away the superficial changes, and Mug Shot Boy and Smartphone Boy were the same person.</p>
<p>Sam Wesson, convicted murderer and fugitive.</p>
<p>Her mind whirled with confusion, fear and outrage. She thought that she might throw up. How dare Father Cas put her in this position? If the authorities found out about this, she could lose her realtor’s license, and she’d be lucky if that was all she lost. Prison was a definite possibility. What would her husband say? Don didn’t know about her association with the network. Would he understand?</p>
<p>The network’s purpose was to shelter women from violent exes. Lately, they’d worked with undocumented immigrants, such as the older man Amelia had met. She was on board with all of that because she was in sync with Father Cas’ beliefs. He was firmly anti-establishment. It was one of the things she admired about him. Don liked to joke about their friend “the hippie priest” but he also respected the man.</p>
<p>But he had gone too far this time. His actions could destroy the network. He had put them all at risk, and for what? It made no sense. Unless… maybe he and the fugitive really were lovers? She couldn’t imagine him throwing everything away for a criminal, but lust made people do strange things.</p>
<p>Amelia started the car and drove off, heading home. She needed to plan her next move very carefully. Her only priority was to protect herself and her family. Nothing else mattered – not the priest, not the network, and especially not the fugitive.</p>
<p>
  <em>Damn you, Father. You’ve made me a criminal. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I love to listen to music while I write, and I created a playlist for this fic. I thought I'd give you a little taste of what inspires me by including my top ten favorites from the playlist.  I'm not going to post the whole thing here because it has over 70 songs, but these are the ones I keep going back to.</p>
<p>1.	Run - Jasmine Thompson<br/>2.	Ride Like The Wind - Christopher Cross<br/>3.	Police On My Back - The Clash<br/>4.	What Would Happen - Meredith Brooks<br/>5.	The Hunted - Saint Asonia<br/>6.	The Fugitive - Iron Maiden<br/>7.	Just A Job To Do - Genesis<br/>8.	Renegade - Styx<br/>9.	I Will Not Bow - Breaking Benjamin<br/>10.	Nowhere To Run - Martha Reeves and the Vandellas</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean and Jody shift their focus to Pleasantville as Amelia makes a decision that will have consequences for Sam.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks as always to Kassy Scarlett for continuing beta help and encouragement.</p>
<p>And thanks to you readers for your kudos and comments! Your support energizes me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things started out well in Mapleton. The police chief gave Dean and Jody access to the incident reports from the last few days. An account of a stolen car from two days ago looked promising, but it turned out to be just a couple of teens joyriding. The marshals flashed Sam Wesson’s picture around the town, asked questions, but their inquiries bore no fruit. There was no evidence that Wesson had been in Mapleton. Dean was starting to wonder if his hunch was a bust.</p>
<p>It was time to move on to Pleasantville. They set up a meeting for the next morning with Chief Diana Ballard and then checked into Mapleton’s one motel. Dean’s room was small but immaculate and very comfortable. He woke up feeling surprisingly good after getting his first decent night’s sleep since starting this case.</p>
<p>After grabbing breakfast at a diner across the street from the motel, he and Jody were on the way to their car when Dean’s phone rang. It was Elaine, the admin assistant from their office.</p>
<p>“Sorry to bother you, Marshal, but there’s a woman on the tip line who specifically asked to speak to you. Says she’s seen Sam Wesson. She won’t give her name.”</p>
<p>“Huh. Okay, put her through.” He put the phone on speaker.</p>
<p>Jody looked at him, eyebrows raised.</p>
<p>“Tip line,” he whispered, and she nodded.</p>
<p>“Go ahead, ma’am,” said Elaine.</p>
<p>Silence, except for breathing on the other end.</p>
<p>“Hello? This is Marshal Dean Winchester. You wanted to speak with me?”</p>
<p>A woman’s voice replied, “Uh, hi. You’re looking for Sam Wesson?”</p>
<p>“That’s right.”</p>
<p>“I’ve seen him. In Pleasantville.”</p>
<p>Dean’s heart jolted. He and Jody exchanged excited looks. “Where in Pleasantville was this, ma’am?” Somehow he managed to keep a calm tone of voice.</p>
<p>“There’s an abandoned real estate development called River Walk. Out on Mockingbird Drive? I saw him hanging around there.”</p>
<p>“When did you see him?”</p>
<p>“Last night. Around nine o’clock.”</p>
<p>Dean ground his teeth. <em>Almost twelve hours ago. Why the hell did she wait so long to call?</em></p>
<p>He suppressed his irritation. “Okay, thank you for calling, Miss– ”</p>
<p>“I’m not giving you my name.”</p>
<p>“That’s okay, you don’t have to. But there’s a reward for information, so if you – ”</p>
<p>“I don’t care about the reward. Just arrest him. I – I can’t stand the thought of him in my town.” Her voice wavered slightly, as if she was about to start crying.</p>
<p>“Okay, we’ll check it out. Thank you for calling. We – ”</p>
<p>There was an electronic beep.</p>
<p>“Hello? Ma’am?”</p>
<p>Dean looked at his screen. The caller was gone.</p>
<p>He said to Jody, “We might have finally caught a break.”</p>
<p>“I’ll drive. We can be at the police station in twenty minutes.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Chief Ballard was surprised to hear about the tip. “A fugitive in my town? This is big news.”</p>
<p>“It might be nothing, but we have to run it down,” said Jody.</p>
<p>“Of course. My department is at your disposal.”</p>
<p>“We appreciate that,” said Dean. “What can you tell us about River Walk?”</p>
<p>“It was a planned real estate development at the east end of town, on a little ridge overlooking the riverfront. Really beautiful area. There was a long-term plan for a park at the bottom of that ridge, with a playground and a dog run, but those plans are on hold. When the market dipped, there was no more money for construction, so only one house was ever built, on Mockingbird Drive. It was a model that showed prospective buyers what their house would look like. My friend owns the realty company that’s trying to sell the model house.”</p>
<p>“Is that the only house out there?”</p>
<p>“The only one that’s completed. Another house was half-built when the money ran out, but it was never finished. Now it’s abandoned. My friend calls it a zombie subdivision.”</p>
<p>“Colorful name,” said Jody.</p>
<p>“If your fugitive is in that area, he may be squatting in the model house. We sometimes have trouble with kids using it as a party house. And transients have crashed there a couple times while they were passing through.”</p>
<p>“Our caller said she saw Wesson last night.”</p>
<p>“Assuming he’s still there, how do you want to play this?”</p>
<p>Jody said, “We worked with the Smithfield cops to take down Randall. They put the house under surveillance, and once they confirmed the ID, we raided the house and arrested him.”</p>
<p>“There isn’t a lot of cover for a decent surveillance,” said Ballard. “Other than some trees, there is literally nothing else on Mockingbird Drive other than the model house and the zombie. The nearest occupied houses are at least a quarter mile away. A car’s gonna stick out on Mockingbird because it has no reason to be there. If Wesson’s there, he’ll know something’s up if he sees a car parked outside.”</p>
<p>“All right. Let’s do it this way. Jody, me and a team of your best people park on the next street and move down to the house on foot.”</p>
<p>“I want in on this,” said Ballard. She grinned at them. “I don’t get to do takedowns very often these days. I used to be a cop in your neck of the woods. Pleasantville’s nice, but sometimes I miss the big city action.”</p>
<p>“We’re happy to have you,” said Dean. “So then it’s you, me and Jody on the front door, plus one officer to handle the ram, and two more at the back to grab him if he runs.”</p>
<p>Ballard looked a little uncomfortable. “Do we have to do shock and awe? My friend is gonna have kittens if we bust up the door.”</p>
<p>Jody said, “Then we’ll ask your friend to give us the keys so we can let ourselves in like civilized people. Nothing else changes. Four in the front and two at the back.” Dean nodded agreement.</p>
<p>“I’m sure my friend will be happy to comply,” said Ballard.</p>
<p>Dean didn’t have a problem with the change in plan. Sometimes damaging property was a regrettable part of their job, but in this instance it didn’t seem necessary. Why antagonize the locals? As Henriksen might say, leave that shit to the FBI.</p>
<p>He wondered if Wesson was even at the house. Maybe he’d spent the night and then moved on. <em>That’s what I would do if I was in his shoes.</em> But Wesson had been lucky for several days. Maybe that had made him complacent. If so, they might catch him unawares whether they rammed the door or not. He imagined a possible scenario.</p>
<p>
  <em>Sam Wesson is fast asleep on the living room sofa, as Dean and a squad of police officers quietly unlock the front door and creep into the house. Dean moves right up to the sofa and loudly clears his throat. Sam stirs and wakes up to the sight of Dean’s gun inches from his face.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Morning, Sunshine!” Dean’s voice is cheerful.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The fugitive freezes as the cops pull him off the sofa, put him on the floor and cuff him. His expression crumples with the realization that his run is over.</em>
</p>
<p>Could it really be that easy?</p>
<p>“Why are you smiling, Dean?”</p>
<p>He started. Jody was studying him intently. “I was just thinking that we could have Wesson in cuffs by lunchtime. How cool would that be?”</p>
<p>“Very cool, especially if you’re buying.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Ballard was right. Larry Erhardt, the president of Erhardt Realty, was happy to cooperate with the marshals. Maybe a little <em>too</em> happy.</p>
<p>“I can’t believe that a fugitive might be squatting in our development,” he said. “And a killer, no less! This is so exciting! Nothing ever happens in Pleasantville.” He wore a wide grin, his eyes sparkling with delight.</p>
<p>“We’re not sure if he’s there,” said Dean. “We’re just following up on a tip.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be happy to let you have the keys. If he’s there, we want him gone as much as you do. And if you can nab him without kicking in the door, even better.”</p>
<p>“We really appreciate your cooperation, Larry,” said Ballard.</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>The door opened and a woman walked in carrying a cup of coffee. She set the cup down on a desk and looked at them. “Hey, Larry, what’s going on?”</p>
<p>“Amelia Richardson, these are US Marshals Mills and Winchester. You already know Chief Ballard.”</p>
<p>A strange expression flashed on her face – <em>fear?</em> – but quickly disappeared, replaced with a cool, polite mask. “Oh. Hello, nice to meet you. Hi, Chief Ballard, good to see you.” She shook hands with all three of them.</p>
<p>Erhardt said, “We were just talking about River Walk.” To the others he said, “Amelia is our top realtor. She handles River Walk.”</p>
<p>Her eyes widened. “Is there a problem?”</p>
<p>Dean said, “Ms. Richardson, maybe you’ve seen the news about an escaped convict named Sam Wesson?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I’ve seen him on TV. You think he’s here in Pleasantville?”</p>
<p>“We got a tip that he might be in the River Walk area. He may be squatting at the model house. Have you been at the site recently? Seen anything out of the ordinary?”</p>
<p>“No, I haven’t been there in the last month. Haven’t seen or heard anything unusual. We had some problems with kids, and a couple times some homeless people broke in, but that was a few months ago. There’s been nothing recent.”</p>
<p>She swallowed hard. “This convict. He killed somebody, didn’t he?”</p>
<p>“He bludgeoned his roommate to death,” said Jody. “He escaped while he was being transported and he’s been on the run ever since.”</p>
<p>“Oh my God. How awful. I can’t believe it.” She rubbed her forehead.</p>
<p>“Are you okay, Ms. Richardson?” Dean looked at her, his brow furrowed.</p>
<p>“I’m fine. It’s just – it’s very distressing.”</p>
<p>“Yes, it is. We’re doing everything we can to catch him.”</p>
<p>Erhardt asked, “Amelia, would you mind giving them the keys to 57 Mockingbird so they can check it out?”</p>
<p>“Of course.” Amelia opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a keyring. “Here you are.”</p>
<p>Jody accepted the keys. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>“Happy to help.” Amelia picked up her coffee and sipped. Dean noticed that her hands were shaking.</p>
<p>“Anything else we can do for you folks?” Erhardt smiled at the group.</p>
<p>Dean and Jody looked at each other. “No, I think we’re good to go.”</p>
<p>“Wonderful. Good luck out there. Hope you get him.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.” The marshals and Chief Ballard all shook hands again with Erhardt and Amelia as they said their goodbyes. Amelia muttered a goodbye that was just barely audible.</p>
<p>The marshals and the chief left, talking quietly with each other as they walked out the door. Amelia sank into her chair and put her head in her hands.</p>
<p>“Amelia? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>She looked up at Larry. “I, uh, I just can’t believe it.”</p>
<p>“I know, right? I can’t remember the last time something interesting happened in this town.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Incredible. Well, he’s probably moved on already. I mean, it’s not like he’s gonna put down roots here, right?”</p>
<p>“I guess.” She shrugged and took another sip of coffee.</p>
<p>His smile faded, replaced with a concerned expression. “I’m sure we’re not in any danger, Amelia. The marshals know what they’re doing.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure they do.” She managed a smile.</p>
<p>“Hey, maybe this will spark some buyer interest. We could design an ad campaign.” He spread out his hands, creating an imaginary billboard. “Want to own a house where a notorious killer was captured? Come on down to Erhardt Realty.”</p>
<p>“You always did have a good eye for a sales angle, Larry.”</p>
<p>“It’s a gift, what can I say?” Larry rubbed his hands together. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for a closing. See you later.” He turned away and headed to his office.</p>
<p>Amelia watched him go and then stood up. She looked at Jenny, the receptionist. “Jen, I need a smoke. I’m gonna step out for a couple minutes, okay?”</p>
<p>Jenny nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I understand, hon. Take your time.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.” Amelia picked up her coffee and left the office.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Amelia was trying to quit smoking, but sometimes when she was under stress the urge to light up was overwhelming. Right now her stress levels were off the charts. She headed to the pocket park across the street, her favorite place to take a smoke break.</p>
<p>The little park was deserted. She sat down on a bench, drank some coffee, and lit up. She closed her eyes and blew out a long stream of smoke. Her neck and shoulders were full of knots. She hadn’t slept much the night before. She lay awake staring at the bedroom ceiling, tormented by visions of the police breaking down her door and hauling her away in handcuffs, until she finally managed to drift off for a few hours.</p>
<p>She woke up just after dawn, her nerves shredded, and made an excuse to Don about needing to run an early errand. He cheerfully accepted the lie and agreed to get their son Jack ready for school. His sunny attitude made her feel worse.</p>
<p>Calling the tip line and speaking to Marshal Winchester was easier than she’d anticipated. She kept the call brief just in case they were tracing it, being careful not to mention anything that could be linked to her. After she hung up, she felt as if she could finally breathe again. She knew she had done the right thing.</p>
<p>Her relief was short-lived. When she returned from her coffee run and saw the marshals and Chief Ballard in her office, she’d nearly lost it. Had she slipped up and somehow incriminated herself? She didn’t like the way Winchester had looked at her. Did he recognize her voice? Did her expression give anything away? Okay, maybe she looked a little stressed out, but who wouldn’t be stressed out to learn that a killer was in their midst?</p>
<p>Amelia felt as if she might collapse when the marshals and the chief finally left. Was it over now? She hoped so, but she had to be honest – she wouldn’t feel safe until that kid was captured, and even then it might not be over. The marshals could still discover her role in this mess.</p>
<p>Her brain wouldn’t stop running worst case scenarios. What if they questioned the kid and he gave up Father Cas? If they picked up the priest, would he rat her out to save himself? Amelia wanted to think that he wouldn’t, but her faith in Father Cas was not as strong as it had been twenty-four hours ago. God, she wished she had said <em>no</em> to him!</p>
<p>If they arrested her for aiding a fugitive, she would tell them everything. She would emphasize that she didn’t know anything about the kid when she agreed to harbor him. Would confessing be enough to save her from prison? She could always say that she was the one who had tipped them off. Surely, that would win her some brownie points.</p>
<p>Damn it, her head would split in two if she didn’t confide in someone. She couldn’t tell Don what she had done without explaining the network, and that would involve getting into a part of her past that she didn’t want to revisit. There was only one person she could talk to: the man who had put her in this position. She put out her cigarette, took out her phone and dialed his number.</p>
<p>Father Cas answered on the first ring. “<em>Amelia? Is something wrong?</em>”</p>
<p>“I think you know what’s wrong, Father.”</p>
<p>“<em>What are you talking about?</em>”</p>
<p>“Your <em>client</em>. I know who he is. I saw him.”</p>
<p>“<em>You – what?</em>”</p>
<p>“Something didn’t feel right, so I went back to the house and I saw the two of you. I recognized him.” She waited for the priest to say something, but he remained silent. It was infuriating.</p>
<p>“How could you use the network this way? For a <em>murderer</em>? Do you have any idea of the danger you’ve put me in?” She struggled to keep her voice down.</p>
<p>“<em>I can explain.</em>”</p>
<p>“Oh, this should be good. Go ahead, Father. Explain why you’re helping a murderer.”</p>
<p>“<em>Amelia, he’s innocent.</em>”</p>
<p>“Says who? <em>Him?</em> There’s a reliable source!” She huffed a laugh. “Wait, let me guess. A one-armed man did it!” More laughter bubbled up inside her.</p>
<p>“<em>I’m sorry, Amelia. You have every right to be angry with me. I should have been honest with you.”</em></p>
<p>The laughter faded away and she regained control of herself. “Yeah. You should have. What do they call it? A sin of omission. Am I right, Father?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes, you’re right. What I did was a sin of omission.</em>”</p>
<p>The remorse in his voice didn’t make her feel better. Instead, it gave her the spiteful urge to hurt him. “Is that your only sin, Father? What is it with this kid anyway? Is he your <em>boyfriend</em> or something?”</p>
<p>There was a moment of silence. “<em>I’m not going to dignify that with a response.</em>” The priest’s voice was cold.</p>
<p>“Get off your high horse. I’m a criminal now, thanks to your sin of omission. The US Marshals were just at my office. I almost had a heart attack.”</p>
<p>“<em>What? How did they know he was here? How</em>… ” Father Cas paused. “<em>Amelia, what did you do?</em>”</p>
<p>“I called the tip line.”</p>
<p>“<em>You did what? Why?</em>”</p>
<p>“I did it to protect my family. I’d do it again. I’m not going to jail because of your misguided loyalty.”</p>
<p>“<em>I have to go. We’ll talk more about this later.</em>”</p>
<p>“I don’t ‒” She was talking to dead air.</p>
<p>Amelia cursed and shoved the phone into her bag. She needed another cigarette. The way she was feeling, she might smoke the whole pack.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Back at the station, Ballard assembled her officers and they all gathered with Dean and Jody in a conference room, where the marshals laid out their strategy.</p>
<p>“The chief, Marshal Winchester and I will take the front door with one of you,” said Jody. “Two more will take the back. The realtor was kind enough to give us the keys, so we’ll just unlock the door and go in. If Wesson is there, we’ll cuff him and take him in. If he tries to run out the back, the backdoor team will grab him.”</p>
<p>“We should take two cars and park one block away from Mockingbird Drive,” said Ballard. “If he sees cars pulling up outside the house, he’ll know something’s up.”</p>
<p>Dean nodded agreement. “We’ll park on the next block and move on foot from there to the house. Everyone wears vests. Strictly a precaution. We don’t think he has a weapon, but we can’t assume anything.”</p>
<p>Jody concluded, “Stay alert, everyone. Don’t take crazy chances. We all want to come home in one piece. Let’s suit up and get ready to head out in five minutes.”</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Sam woke to sunshine streaming into the living room after a decent night’s sleep on the sofa. He’d had no dreams, wet or dry. He sat up, stretched, and put on his sneakers. It felt weird to have slept in the same clothes, but it was better than sleeping in the woods.</p>
<p>After using the upstairs john, he sat back down on the sofa and ate one of the energy bars Cas had left him, washing it down with half a water bottle. That was enough to satisfy his hunger for now. He would save the turkey sandwich for later.</p>
<p>After eating, he stood up and stretched for a few minutes to limber up, then dropped and did a quick set of fifty pushups. When he was done, he sat cross legged on the floor, catching his breath. In a few minutes, he would do fifty more. Maybe some sit-ups too. It was important to stay in condition.</p>
<p>From the depths of the go bag, the burner phone rang. Frowning, he reached for it. “Cas?”</p>
<p>“<em>Sam. The police are coming. You have to leave the house. Now.</em>”</p>
<p>Adrenaline spiked his blood. “<em>What?!</em> How did they find me?”</p>
<p>“<em>It’s my fault. There’s no time to explain.</em>”</p>
<p>From a distance he heard a faint rumble that steadily grew louder. His breathing quickened. “Cas. I ‒ I think I hear a car.”</p>
<p>“<em>Get out of there now. Take the phone and run.</em>”</p>
<p>“Where do I go?” Sam scrambled to his feet.</p>
<p>“<em>Go out the back door and head for the woods. You’ll find a hiking trail that goes down to the riverfront. The area is still mostly undeveloped, but if you head north you’ll start to see a few businesses. Get some cover and text me. I’ll find you. We’ll figure out what to do then.</em>”</p>
<p>Sam moved to the back of the house as the priest spoke. “Cas, I’m scared.”</p>
<p>“<em>Be strong, Sam. Now run.</em>”</p>
<p>The car engine was growing louder.</p>
<p>He put the phone in his pocket. His hands were shaking as he zipped up the hoodie. He took a deep breath, pulled up the hood and hauled the back door open. “God help me,” he whispered.</p>
<p>Then he was off.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>The team arrived in two cars and parked on Buttercup Street, one block over from Mockingbird. Silently, the marshals and police exited their cars and moved quickly down the street towards 57 Mockingbird. As they approached the house, Dean saw a flash of movement to his left. He glimpsed a tall figure dressed in black, running into a copse of trees. Although he didn’t see the person’s face, he was certain that it was Sam Wesson.</p>
<p>“We’ve got a runner!” he shouted.</p>
<p>Without waiting for the rest of the team, Dean sprinted for the trees, aiming for where he saw the figure enter the woods.</p>
<p>“He’s going for the hiking trail!” yelled Ballard.</p>
<p>Dean quickly accelerated, leaving them behind. He heard Jody shouting, but he didn’t pay attention to the words. Maybe he should wait for her to back him up, but he didn’t want to lose valuable time. The desire to catch Wesson energized him like rocket fuel.</p>
<p>Dean ran track and field in school, and he still went out for a run whenever he could, although his work schedule didn’t permit him to do it as often as he would like. His body fell into a familiar mode: deep, steady breathing, arms and legs pumping rhythmically. He pushed on ahead, his eyes trying to penetrate the dense tree cover. He saw no sign of his prey. The trees were thick enough to blot out a good portion of the sunlight, and the fugitive’s black clothing blended in very well with the undergrowth.</p>
<p>His ears were hyper-attuned to all the sounds around him: his own steady breathing, the birds chirping overhead, the rhythmic slap of his feet on the ground. Ahead of him, a branch cracked and he moved in the direction of the sound.</p>
<p>He thought he glimpsed a flash of white ahead of him – <em>sneakers</em>? Adrenaline lent him another burst of energy. <em>I’m closing in.</em></p>
<p>As they moved deeper into the woods, Dean noticed that they had gotten off the hiking trail. He ducked tree branches, eyes scanning the way ahead of him. All of his attention was focused on the trees and ground ahead of him. Nothing else existed.</p>
<p>He heard the thump of running feet ahead of him. <em>Closer now.</em></p>
<p>Suddenly, he burst into the open. He was on a rise, a gently sloping hill that led down to a vast grassy space bordered by a metal fence, and beyond the fence lay the Delacorte River, electric blue in the morning sunlight.</p>
<p>Maybe ten yards ahead of him, Sam Wesson was scrambling down the hill. Dean paused to take his gun out of its holster. His breath whooshed in and out of his lungs.</p>
<p>“Sam! You’ve got nowhere to go!” His voice echoed around him.</p>
<p>There was no answer, not that Dean had expected one. He held the gun straight out as he advanced down the hill. He was close enough to hear the other man’s harsh breathing.</p>
<p>Dean picked up the pace. “Sam! Give it up! You’re only making it worse for yourself!”</p>
<p>More panting and something that sounded like a sob.</p>
<p>Sam reached the bottom of the hill. He had the river ahead of him and Dean and a squad of cops behind him. There was no cover, nowhere to hide. He was trapped.</p>
<p>
  <em>You’re mine, Sam.</em>
</p>
<p>Dean hurried, his eyes fixed on Wesson’s tall frame. The anticipation of capturing his prey made his blood sing. He was so focused on his goal that he missed a little divot in the ground. His foot snagged it and he tripped, flying headlong.</p>
<p>He tumbled the rest of the way down the hill, hitting the bottom with a grunt as his knees and hands took the brunt of the impact with the ground. His gun went flying and the air huffed out of him.</p>
<p>He rolled to his side, groaning. Pain radiated through his body. “Ah! <em>Shit!</em>”</p>
<p>Tentatively, he moved his arms and legs. Nothing felt broken, thank God. His left knee throbbed and his palms stung where they’d scraped some rocks, but that seemed to be the extent of the damage. He’d have a nice set of bruises tomorrow.</p>
<p>
  <em>Gun. Where’s my gun?</em>
</p>
<p>Dean’s breath came in harsh gasps as he pulled himself to his knees, groaning. His hands reached out, feeling for his weapon. He looked around him, and then in front of him.</p>
<p>The first thing he saw before him was a pair of dirty white sneakers. He looked up, up past two very long legs clad in black sweatpants.</p>
<p>The next thing he saw was his gun.</p>
<p>In Sam Wesson’s hands.</p>
<p>Pointing at him.</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, shit.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The resolution of the standoff between Sam and Dean.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks as always to Kassy Scarlett for invaluable beta help. Couldn't do it without you! &lt;3</p><p>Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments. This story has the best reader response of all the works I've posted here, and I'm really happy that people are enjoying it.</p><p>There will be some discussion of "suicide by cop" in this chapter. I'm adding it to the tags but I also wanted to include a warning here because it can be triggering. If this is a sensitive topic for you, please proceed with caution.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam Wesson towered over Dean, holding the gun in both hands. Less than two feet separated the men. If Wesson pulled the trigger, he would put a bullet right between Dean’s eyes. A perfect kill shot.</p><p>From his position on his knees, Dean slowly raised his hands, palms out, keeping his eyes locked on to Wesson’s. He was careful not to make any sudden moves.</p><p>Despite the seriousness of his situation, Dean couldn’t help thinking, <em>my God, he’s gorgeous</em>. He was well acquainted with the kid’s vital statistics from the information in his file, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing Sam Wesson in person. Tall and lean with long runner’s legs, a wild mop of dark hair that invited you to run your fingers through it, high cheekbones dusted with a slight scruff, a cute little mole to one side of his nose.</p><p>But most striking of all were his eyes. Dean had only seen his eyes in that crappy black and white mug shot. Now that he could finally see the kid up close, he was able to appreciate their true color. According to the vital statistics, his eyes were hazel. But that word seemed inadequate. They were more like a kaleidoscope of blue and green, with flecks of gold and brown mixed in. Dean could lose himself in those eyes.</p><p>This would be a perfect rom-com moment, if not for the fact that Wesson was pointing his own gun at him.</p><p>
  <em>Never mind his eyes, dumbass!</em>
</p><p>He cleared his throat. “Sam. Take it easy. Don’t do anything rash.” He spoke in calm tones, keeping eye contact with Wesson the entire time. He wore a mild expression that did not betray his fear.</p><p>Wesson glared at him. “I didn’t kill Chad.” His voice was low, rough.</p><p>Dean nodded. “Okay. Why don’t you put the gun down and we’ll talk about it?”</p><p>“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m innocent.”</p><p>“Sam, it doesn’t matter.”</p><p>Wesson made a noise that sounded like a growl, but Dean pressed on. “You are out of options, Sam. This area will be flooded with cops any minute. There’s nowhere to run to. You have no place to hide. It’s over. You’re caught.”</p><p>Wesson scoffed and waved the gun. “<em>I’m</em> caught? Who has the gun?”</p><p><em>Shit. Maybe try the friendly approach.</em> “C’mon, Sam. Be reasonable.” He put on an ingratiating smile. “Do you know how much paperwork I’ll have to do if you steal my gun?”</p><p>“How much will you have to do if I shoot you?”</p><p>Dean’s smile curdled. Ice filled his gut. He forced himself to maintain the calm, reasonable demeanor. “Sam. Think. If you shoot me, this will never end. Someone else will take my place. They’ll never stop hunting you. They will shoot you on sight. Is that what you want?”</p><p>Anguish filled Wesson’s face. “You know what I want? I want my life back, that’s what I want!” His voice rose to a ragged shout. The gun wavered in his shaky hands.</p><p>
  <em>Crap. He might shoot me by accident!</em>
</p><p>“Let’s end this, Sam. Put the gun down and come with me. Nobody will hurt you, I swear.”</p><p>Wesson scoffed again.</p><p>“Don’t you want to see your uncle Bobby again? He’s worried sick about you.”</p><p>“Shut up! Don’t talk about my uncle! Just leave me alone, okay?” Wesson took a step back, then another.</p><p>“<em>All of you, just leave me alone! Let me go!</em>”</p><p>Before Dean could speak again, Wesson turned and ran, still holding the gun. Dean sighed and pushed himself up to one knee. He reached down and pulled his backup weapon from his ankle holster.</p><p>“I can’t let you go, Sam,” he muttered. He stood up on shaky legs, testing them by shifting from one foot to the other. Twinges of pain radiated from his left knee, but it took his weight. He put the gun in his shoulder holster and took off again after his fugitive.</p><p>*            *            *</p><p>Sam ran, not quite in an all-out panic, but getting there. Was Winchester still chasing him? He probably was. He seemed like the type who would chase you to hell and back.</p><p>What would have happened if the marshal hadn’t fallen and lost his gun? Sam guessed that he would probably be in chains right now. Fate had freed him from the transport van, and now it had intervened once again to save him from certain capture. Maybe Cas was right and there were no coincidences.</p><p>Sam would never forget how Winchester’s green eyes had widened with shock when he saw his own gun being pointed at him. He had to give the guy credit for staying calm. If the roles had been reversed, Sam probably would have crapped his pants.</p><p>
  <em>I never would have shot you. I only wanted to get away. I wish I could tell you that.</em>
</p><p>Well, once he cleared his name, he would look up Winchester and they’d have a beer and a nice chat. Right now, Sam had to concentrate on escaping. His chances didn’t look very good. There was no place to hide on this open ground, as the marshal had so helpfully pointed out. With every step, Sam felt as if a white-hot spotlight was trained on him. Winchester had said that the area would soon be flooded with cops and Sam had no reason to doubt him. Unless he was very lucky, there was a good chance that Winchester or some other cop would catch up with him again before long.</p><p>How many cops were chasing him now? How close were they? Sam didn’t want to waste precious seconds stopping to look around. He had to keep moving. Winchester had said there was no place to run to. That might be true, but Sam still had to try, no matter how bad the odds were.</p><p>The marshal was wrong about one thing, however: Sam was not out of options. He had a card to play, although it was a very last resort.</p><p>There was a name for it: <em>suicide by cop</em>. If they cornered him and there was no other way out, he would force them to shoot him. Winchester’s gun bounced in his pocket with every step he took. All he had to do was pull it out. They’d cut him down in a barrage of gunfire, like Bonnie and Clyde. He’d feel a few seconds of pain, and then it would be over. No more fear. No more looking over his shoulder. No more grieving for his stolen future. He’d have peace at last.</p><p>This line of thinking would horrify Cas, but it didn’t mean that Sam wanted to die. He wanted very much to live, but life in a cage wasn’t much of a life. Being a fugitive wasn’t so great either, but at least he wasn’t locked up and subject to the dangers and indignities of jail. He didn’t belong there and he would fight like hell to keep from going back.</p><p>Everything had been taken from him. He had nothing left to lose. But he wouldn’t play this last card unless he absolutely had to. For now, he would keep running until he couldn’t run anymore. Surrender was not an option. He would –</p><p>“Sam Wesson! Stop!”</p><p><em>Winchester</em>. Behind him, and coming closer.</p><p>Sam let out a frustrated yelp.</p><p>
  <em>Damn it, doesn’t this guy ever quit?</em>
</p><p>*            *            *</p><p>Dean ran, operating on pure adrenaline. His knee throbbed but so far it was holding up. He pushed away the pain, the aftershocks from being held at gunpoint, the anxiety over losing his gun to Wesson. He narrowed his focus to exclude everything but the tall boy running from him. Wesson was about ten yards ahead and, despite his protesting knee, Dean was gaining steadily.</p><p>Five yards away now.</p><p>“Sam Wesson! Stop!”</p><p>Wesson cried out. And miraculously, he stopped.</p><p>Dean couldn’t believe his luck. He halted and pulled his gun, holding it in a two-handed grip and aiming it at Wesson. “Hands up, Sam!”</p><p>Wesson didn’t move. His body shook and he was audibly gasping for breath. Dean noted that one pocket of Wesson’s hoodie bulged and hung a little low, as if it carried something heavy.</p><p><em>He still has my gun.</em> Dean’s nerves, already on high alert, tightened another notch. He watched the kid’s hands to see if they made a move for his pocket. He didn’t want to shoot, but if Wesson pulled that gun Dean would have no choice.</p><p>“Sam, I won’t tell you again. Hands in the air and get down on your knees.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Dean blinked. “<em>No?</em> What do you mean, <em>no</em>?”</p><p>Wesson didn’t move. He remained where he was, his back to Dean. “I’m not coming with you. You want to take me? You’ll have to shoot me.” His voice wavered.</p><p>“What kind of bullshit is this?” Dean cautiously advanced a couple of steps, gun at the ready.</p><p>Wesson was statue-still. His hands stayed at his sides. “No bullshit. I will not surrender. You’ll have to shoot me. In the back.” Oddly, he laughed, a shrill hysterical bark. “How much paperwork will you have to do for <em>that</em>?”</p><p>“Quit talking crazy. I’m not shooting you in the back, Sam. Put your hands up and get on your knees. <em>Right now</em>!”</p><p>Wesson let out a long sigh. His shoulders slumped. “Why won’t you listen to me when I say I’m innocent?”</p><p>“Because it’s not my job to care about that, Sam. Taking you in, <em>that’s</em> my job.”</p><p>“Fine.” Wesson slowly turned around and faced Dean. His lips were twisted in a strange, crooked smile. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Mister Marshal. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I gotta run.”</p><p>He was off again before Dean could respond.</p><p><em>What the fuck?</em> Dean holstered his weapon again and started to run after Wesson. But this time he only managed a handful of steps before a blast of pain shot through his knee. It almost buckled beneath him.</p><p>He staggered to a stop. “<em>Shit!</em> God <em>damn</em> it!” Ahead of him, Wesson receded quickly, heading north. About half a mile in the distance, Dean could see groups of people milling about. In a few minutes, Wesson would reach them and then he’d be lost in the crowd.</p><p>Dean tried to take another step and his knee responded with a throb and another near-buckle. He wouldn’t be running any more today. He’d be lucky if he’d be able to walk.</p><p>He bent over, breathing hard and grimacing against the pain. “Damn it, Sam!”</p><p>*            *            *</p><p>Sam ran hard, as fast as he could, until he finally left the open field. Grass and dirt gave way to asphalt. To his right, a pier jutted out into the river like a long finger. According to a signpost at its entrance, he was at the Veterans Memorial Pier, with <em>May 24, 1998</em> inscribed on the sign. A flagpole stood in the center, American and POW-MIA flags flapping in the mild breeze. Men stood fishing at the edges, patiently waiting for a nibble. Other people sat on benches, smoking, reading, or just watching the boats gliding by on the river.</p><p>He slowed down and walked past the signpost, wiping sweat from his forehead and pulling deep breaths into his burning lungs. He was tempted to go on to the pier and sit down to rest, but if the cops found him there, his only escape would be to jump in the river. He knew how to swim, but he hadn’t done it in years. He probably wasn’t a strong enough swimmer to get very far, especially if there was a rip tide. Going out in a hail of bullets was one thing, but drowning terrified him.</p><p>His hood had flopped down during his run and he pulled it back up, drawing the strings tight. Then he headed over to the fence and leaned against it, catching his breath and looking around.</p><p>This must be the riverfront shopping district. A few people sat at tables outside a coffee shop, sipping lattes and looking at their phones. Others browsed the shops, which showed off expensive-looking clothing, shoes and accessories in their windows. Nobody paid attention to Sam.</p><p>He scanned the area and saw no cops. No sign of Winchester, either. <em>That’s odd. I thought he’d be right on my back.</em></p><p>He took the phone out of his pocket and shot a quick text to Cas:<em> I’m at the pier</em>.</p><p>Seconds later, Cas responded: <em>On my way. ETA 5 min.</em></p><p>Sam hoped that the priest would arrive sooner than that. A lot could happen in five minutes. He drew a deep breath and replaced the phone in his pocket. Winchester’s gun weighed heavily in his other pocket. He’d have to get rid of it as soon as it was safe to do so.</p><p>He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and scanned the area again. He felt exposed and vulnerable out here. At any moment someone could look up from their phone and spot him, recognize him. For the first time since high school, he was self-conscious about his height. It was the first thing people noticed about him, and they always remembered it.</p><p>He hunched his shoulders and tried to slouch a bit. His eyes flitted over the crowds of people. He was looking for cops, and one man in particular. Winchester had found him twice. No reason to think that he wouldn’t find him again. Part of him longed for that to happen and part of him dreaded it. After the craziness that had marked their previous encounters, what might happen if they met again?</p><p>He hadn’t expected to test drive the suicide by cop approach so soon, but Winchester took him by surprise. Daring the marshal to shoot him in the back was a reckless, spur of the moment act. Sam wouldn’t have tried it with another cop- Morgan, for example- but his instincts told him that the marshal wouldn’t take him up on it. He seemed like an honorable, by-the-book type. And the hunch paid off. The dare knocked Winchester off balance just long enough to give Sam a chance to escape.</p><p>Winchester probably thought he was crazy. He had sounded confused, even shocked, by Sam’s dare. But why should he be surprised? Didn’t he understand how desperate and scared Sam was?</p><p>Obviously he didn’t understand, or didn’t care to. He had twice brushed aside Sam’s protestation of innocence. So Winchester would just throw an innocent man in jail and walk away. Apparently that was <em>his job</em>. Maybe he wasn’t so honorable after all.</p><p>Sam hated to admit it, but that hurt a little.</p><p>
  <em>You know what your problem is? You get distracted by how hot he is and you forget that he’s the enemy.</em>
</p><p>He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead, rubbing it as if he could smooth away all his troubled thoughts.</p><p>The phone buzzed, startling him. He pulled it out of his pocket.</p><p>
  <em>I’m at the northwest corner of Decatur Street. Go past the coffee shop, and walk down the street. You remember my car?</em>
</p><p>Sam texted back: <em>Blue Hyundai.</em></p><p>
  <em>Right. Get in the back and cover up with the blanket, like before.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Got it. On my way.</em>
</p><p>He pocketed the phone and moved away from the fence. As he walked briskly to the coffee shop, he expected to hear someone shout his name at any second, but nobody even glanced in his direction. He passed the coffee shop and headed down the street.</p><p>He saw the car right away and headed towards it. From the front seat, Cas spotted him and raised a hand. Sam nodded in response and when he reached the car he opened the rear door and slid into the backseat.</p><p>“Are you all right, Sam?”</p><p>Sam barked a laugh. “I’m so far from all right, I need a map to find it. But I’m still free, so I guess that’s something.”</p><p>“Yes, it is. We’ll figure it out, Sam. I’ll take you someplace safe now.” Cas started the car.</p><p>“Thanks, Cas.” He curled up on the backseat and pulled the blanket over him.</p><p><em>Safe</em>. The house on Mockingbird Drive was supposed to be safe, but it had somehow been compromised. Cas had said it was his fault that the marshals had discovered the house. Once they were at the new <em>safe place</em>, he would ask the priest to elaborate.</p><p>Was any place safe now?</p><p>*            *            *</p><p>“Dean!” He turned around and saw Jody heading towards him. Chief Ballard and the rest of her officers trailed a few feet behind her. He raised a hand and waved.</p><p>In a few seconds, she reached him. Her eyes narrowed when she saw his clenched jaw and pained expression. “What happened? Are you all right?”</p><p>“Ah, I tripped on something and fell down the hill back there.” He huffed a laugh. “Like my grandma used to say, I went ass over teakettle. Banged up my knee.”</p><p>“Shit.” She looked around. “Where did Wesson go?”</p><p>Dean waved at the area ahead of him. “He ran off that way. I chased him as far as I could until my knee crapped out.” He sighed. “He has my gun, Jody.”</p><p>“<em>What?!</em> How did that happen?”</p><p>“I dropped it when I fell. He picked it up.” Dean swallowed hard. “He pointed it right at my face. I thought I was dead.”</p><p>“Holy shit.” She looked at Ballard, who had joined them just in time to hear what Dean had said.</p><p>The chief’s eyes popped open wide. “He took your gun? Okay, I’m calling in all units. We’re gonna cover this entire area, and we’re gonna set up roadblocks on all the major roads leading out of town.” She turned around and motioned to her officers, who jogged over to meet her.</p><p>“We can call in the state troopers to help if you need more personnel. But right now we have to catch up with him.”</p><p>Dean took a step forward and grunted as pain stabbed his knee again. “Son of a bitch!”</p><p>Jody said, “Dean, we should get you to a hospital. You probably need an X-ray.”</p><p>He tried to wave her off. “Nah, I’m okay. Nothing’s broken. Probably just a sprain or a deep bruise. Get me a couple of Advil and a bag of frozen peas, and I’ll be fine.”</p><p>“Frozen peas, my ass. You can hardly walk. You have to get checked out.”</p><p>Ballard said, “I’ll call an ambulance.” She walked away a few steps and took a radio from her pocket. Her officers followed her, waiting for instructions.</p><p>Dean blew out a sigh. “All right, I’ll go to the hospital. But Jody, you don’t have to go with me. There’s no need for both of us to be out of commission. I’m not seriously hurt, just a little banged up. You stay here and coordinate with the chief. I’ll rejoin you as soon as I get checked out.”</p><p>Dean knew he had to take care of his knee. He was no good to the team if he couldn’t even walk. But he wasn’t going to spend one second longer than necessary at the hospital. He didn’t doubt Jody’s ability to handle things, but he wanted to get back in the action as soon as possible. He hated being sidelined.</p><p>He motioned Jody to come in closer and when she did he lowered his voice so that Ballard couldn’t overhear. “Jody, you have to take charge. Things are more dangerous now that he’s armed. The cops might be a little too quick on the trigger.”</p><p>“And that’s a bad thing? He could’ve killed you, Dean.”</p><p>“I know. But it’s easier on all of us if we bring him in alive. He gets shot, the media will be all over us. We’ve seen the way they second guess law enforcement. Henriksen hates bad press. And Bobby Singer will give us hell if his nephew gets killed.”</p><p>“Well, now that you put it that way.” Jody frowned at him. “You sure you’re okay with me staying here?”</p><p>He hesitated, looked at Ballard, who was still on the radio, then back at Jody. “Here’s the deal. I think Wesson may be unstable. I’m worried that he might shoot someone. But I’m even more worried that he might try to provoke the cops to shoot him.”</p><p>Her eyes widened. “Suicide by cop.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“You’re right, that makes things a lot more dangerous. We can’t let him control the situation.”</p><p>“Exactly. The locals probably don’t see this kind of thing too often. We have the experience to handle it.”</p><p>“All right, Dean. I’ll stay here. And I’ll do everything I can to bring him in safely. But shot cops make for bad press too. If we corner him and he tries to shoot his way out, we won’t have any choice.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” He prayed that Wesson wouldn’t be stupid enough to force their hand. Dean had seen this scenario play out before, and it was always a nightmare for all concerned.</p><p>He couldn’t stop thinking about Wesson’s attitude, and that creepy little smile on his face. And then there was that <em>shoot me in the back</em> remark. Dean had never heard anything like it. The kid was clearly scared of going to prison, but did he really think that death was preferable? Dean wanted to talk to Wesson, snap him out of this crazy death wish before something terrible happened. He couldn’t bear the thought of that beautiful boy lying bloody and lifeless on the ground.</p><p>He looked to the north, the direction that Wesson had run, thinking about their first encounter at the bottom of the hill. Those crazy, desperate (<em>beautiful</em>) eyes drilling into his as he held Dean at gunpoint. It would have been so easy for Wesson to pull the trigger.</p><p>“He could have shot me.” He turned back to Jody. “He had me dead to rights. Why didn’t he shoot me?”</p><p>“Because he knew he’d be signing his own death warrant. He’s not stupid, Dean.”</p><p>“No, he’s not.” <em>And maybe he’s not a cold-blooded killer, either.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Cas goes outside the network and takes Sam to a new safe place.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I want to thank Kassy Scarlett once again for beta help, and for giving me great advice on a direction for this chapter. I couldn't have done it without you!</p>
<p>There is another brief mention of suicide by cop in this chapter, so please be careful.</p>
<p>Thanks again for all your lovely comments and kudos! I'm so happy that you've joined me for this ride.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cas drove, carefully observing the speed limit. The only sound in the car came from the radio, which was tuned to the all-news station. Governor Nelson’s hooker scandal still dominated the coverage. Nelson hadn’t resigned yet, but the consensus was that he would be gone before the end of the year. The reporters sounded as if they were on a deathwatch; their tone was somber with just a hint of excitement for the inevitable conclusion.</p>
<p>There were no reports about the hunt for Sam.</p>
<p>Cas groaned. “Isn’t anything else happening in the world?”</p>
<p>From his curled-up position on the too-short backseat, Sam didn’t respond. He wasn’t paying attention to the news; he was too busy thinking about the morning’s events. How had Dean Winchester found him? Was it just dumb luck that brought him to Pleasantville? Of all the cops hunting him, what were the odds that Sam would end up face to face with the man he had been thinking about almost nonstop for the past few days? Maybe they were linked on a deep, psychic level, and that bond had drawn the marshal to him.</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t some young adult romance. The guy is trying to put you in jail. He’s not your friggin soulmate!</em>
</p>
<p>Sam shifted position, trying to get comfortable. It was stuffy under the blanket and sweat beaded at his temples. His body was beginning to crash now that the adrenaline from his escape had faded. He felt tired, achy and grumpy.</p>
<p>“Hang in there, Sam. We don’t have far to go.”</p>
<p>“Where are we going, Cas? Another safe house?”</p>
<p>Cas shut the radio. “No. After what happened this morning, I think it would be prudent to stay away from the network, at least until I can be sure that it’s safe.”</p>
<p>“Speaking of that, how did the cops find me?”</p>
<p>“My realtor friend tipped them off. It’s my fault.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Mystery solved. So much for the soulmate bond.</em>
</p>
<p>“How is it your fault?”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t completely honest with her. I, uh, left out certain details about your situation.”</p>
<p>“Certain details. Like me being a fugitive.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, that. She got suspicious and she hung around after I thought she’d left. She saw us together and she recognized you.” Cas sighed. “She called me and told me what she did. She was furious with me. She thinks I made her a criminal. Apparently, the cops came by her office and she thought they were going to arrest her. She said some things... I think our friendship might be over.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry about that.” Sam felt bad for Cas, but he couldn’t suppress a stab of self-pity. After all the hype about the network, after all their precautions, he had still nearly been caught.</p>
<p>
  <em>Why can’t things be easy, just once?</em>
</p>
<p>“I screwed up. I thought the less she knew, the better. I was trying to protect you both, but I ended up making things worse. I’m so sorry, Sam.”</p>
<p>“You tried to do the right thing, Cas.”</p>
<p>“She called the cops because she was trying to protect her family. How can I blame her for that?”</p>
<p>“You can’t. I don’t blame her, either.” And he didn’t. He mostly felt guilty.</p>
<p>“I let you down, Sam. I’ll do my best to make it up to you.”</p>
<p>“You don’t owe me a thing, Cas. I’m the one causing all the trouble. I wrecked your friendship with that woman. Hell, I probably destroyed her life and I don’t even know her.” Sam sighed. “What a mess.”</p>
<p>“Sam. None of this is your fault. If you need to blame someone, blame the person who framed you. The best we can do is just keep pushing ahead.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He shifted position again and groaned. His foot was falling asleep. “How much farther?”</p>
<p>“About five minutes.”</p>
<p>“If we’re staying away from the network, where are we going?”</p>
<p>“I’m taking you to a good friend of mine. Her name’s Anna. She used to be a nun but she left the religious life about three years ago. She’s not part of the network, so I thought she was a safe choice.”</p>
<p>“So, uh, what did you tell her about me?”</p>
<p>“Full disclosure this time. I told her everything, and it didn’t scare her off. Quite the opposite, in fact.”</p>
<p> “What’s she like? I went to Catholic school. Some of the nuns there were a little scary.”</p>
<p>Cas chuckled. “She’s not scary at all. She’s a very kind person. I think you’ll like her. She works at an animal shelter and volunteers at other charities.”</p>
<p>“So she’s an animal lover?” He smiled. “I like her already.”</p>
<p>“She has a cat. I hope you’re not allergic.”</p>
<p>“Nope, no allergies.” He was a dog person but he liked cats just fine. He remembered visiting his grandmother when he was a kid. She had three cats and he always got along with them. His favorite was Smokey, an obese gray tomcat who loved having his head scratched.</p>
<p>“Good. She’ll be happy to hear that. And we’ve arrived.” Cas parked the car. There was a creak as the driver’s side door opened. Sam sat up, groaning at his stiff muscles, and tossed the blanket aside. He pulled up the hood, made sure his hair was completely covered, and opened the door. His joints popped as he stepped out of the car.</p>
<p>The crisp autumn air was refreshing after the close confines of the backseat. Sam inhaled deeply, stretching as he looked around.</p>
<p>They were at the end of a tree-lined street that reminded him of Mockingbird Drive. He could see two other houses farther up the street, but they were too far away for him to make out any details.</p>
<p>“Looks like a nice area.”</p>
<p>“The neighborhood’s not as isolated as River Walk. The houses are spread out. Plenty of privacy. You should be safe here.”</p>
<p>The car was parked in front of a two-story wood frame house with a broad front porch. The grass and bushes in the small front yard were neatly trimmed, and off to one side, there was a tall maple tree whose leaves had turned an autumnal flame-red.</p>
<p>Cas came over and patted his shoulder. “Ready, Sam?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” He took one last look around and followed the priest through the front gate and into the yard.</p>
<p>*            *            *</p>
<p>Anna Milton looked nothing like the nuns Sam had known in school. She was a slender redhead with bluish-green eyes and a ready smile. She was casually dressed in jeans, a Notre Dame sweatshirt and battered Converse high-tops. Her handshake was firm, the skin of her palm slightly rough. Sam immediately felt at ease with her.</p>
<p>She led them into her small kitchen and as they settled in at the table she put out cups, spoons and a pot of fresh coffee. They filled their cups while she grabbed a bottle of iced tea from the fridge.</p>
<p>Anna took a seat and smiled at him. “Sam, I’m so happy to meet you. Cas told me a lot about you.”</p>
<p>“Nice to meet you too, Sister Anna.”</p>
<p>She chuckled. “Just Anna is fine. I’m a civilian now.”</p>
<p>He smiled. “Okay, Anna. Thanks for helping me.”</p>
<p>“I followed your case from the beginning. I never believed you were guilty. When Cas told me that he was helping you, I wanted to get involved.”</p>
<p>She gave the priest a mock-stern look. “You should have called me from the get-go, Castiel. It would have saved you a lot of stress.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t want to put you at risk.”</p>
<p>“It’s a risk, sure. But helping Sam is the right thing to do. I watched the coverage of that trial. The prosecution’s case was so weak. Killing someone over late rent and petty squabbles? <em>Please</em>. But the media ate it up.” She snorted and sipped some iced tea.</p>
<p>Sam raised his eyebrows. “Was the coverage that bad? I didn’t have access to a TV or newspaper while I was in jail. My uncle Bobby told me a little bit about what they were saying on the news, but he didn’t go into much detail. He didn’t want to upset me.”</p>
<p>He remembered his uncle grumbling about ‘some blow-dried idjit' who tried to interview him for <em>Trending</em>, a local news show. Bobby told him to pound sand and after that, there were no more interview requests.</p>
<p>Anna looked thoughtful. “Your case wasn’t quite sensational enough to be on <em>Dateline</em> or <em>48 Hours</em>, but it was covered pretty heavily on the local news. It fits a narrative, you know? The boy next door with a dark side that nobody suspected.”</p>
<p>She gave a derisive snort. “And there was a long article in the <em>Tribune.</em> The usual tabloid trash, complete with some rent-a-shrink speculating about your twisted psyche.”</p>
<p>“I remember the <em>Trib</em> story. This jerk guard at the jail showed it to me. He thought it was hilarious.” He grimaced at the memory of Newman flashing the newspaper at Sam. Taunting him. <em>Hey, Princess! You’re famous! Can I get your autograph?</em></p>
<p>Emotion swelled within him. “So many people in my life believed the prosecution. My friends. My professor. My girlfriend.” Tears stung his eyes and he reached for a napkin to wipe them away. “I thought they cared about me and they threw me under the bus.”</p>
<p>He cleared his throat. “My uncle, Cas and my new lawyer are the only ones who believe that I’m innocent.”</p>
<p>“Well, now you have me. That makes four people.”</p>
<p>Sam looked up at Anna. Her eyes were kind. He gave her a shy smile. “You know you could get arrested for helping me.”</p>
<p>She shrugged. “I know. But I can’t just stand by and watch an innocent man go to jail.”</p>
<p>His smile broadened. “I can see why you and Cas are friends.”</p>
<p>“We both believe in justice. We just pursue it a little differently. Cas has a more… <em>adversarial</em> approach. But we agree that protecting the innocent is the moral thing to do.”</p>
<p>Cas nodded in agreement.</p>
<p>Sam drank some more coffee. “I don’t want to be a burden on you, Anna. I won’t make a mess. I’ll help out around the house. I can’t cook, unless you like grilled cheese. But I can do laundry. Dishes. Whatever you need.”</p>
<p>“That would be great, Sam. I appreciate the offer. And I do like grilled cheese.”</p>
<p>“Good to know.” Something brushed his leg and he looked down to see a black and white cat rubbing against him. “Well, hi,” he said.</p>
<p>The cat blinked up at him and for a second, Sam was distracted by its luminous eyes. They were the same shade of green as Marshal Winchester’s. With an effort, he pushed that thought away.</p>
<p>“That’s Mooch, my fur baby. Isn’t he a cutie?”</p>
<p>Sam put out his hand and Mooch rubbed his head against his fingers. The fur felt soft, almost silky. Remembering Smokey, he gave the cat a little scratch behind the ears and was rewarded with a purr and another head rub. “He’s friendly.”</p>
<p>Anna smiled. “He likes you. That’s a good sign. He doesn’t take to just anyone. Right, Cas?”</p>
<p>“Hmph. I have a scar from when he scratched me that time.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “You just startled him, that’s all. But he likes you too, I promise.”</p>
<p>Cas gave her a doubtful frown and she laughed again. To Sam, she said, “Mooch is an excellent judge of people.”</p>
<p>“Too bad he wasn’t on my jury.”</p>
<p>Both Anna and Cas chuckled. Sam relaxed, feeling that he was among friends.</p>
<p>Cas said, “Okay, Sam, I’ve been dying to ask you. How’d you manage to escape this morning?”</p>
<p>Sam briefly explained the day’s adventures: Winchester chasing him through the woods, the marshal’s fall down the hill, their two standoffs. When he described holding Winchester’s own gun on him, Cas gasped and Anna’s eyes went wide but they didn’t comment.</p>
<p>He hesitated when he got to the second standoff, wondering if he should mention his decision to force the cops to shoot him. Since Cas and Anna were both in the God business, they would probably think that Sam was suicidal. While he believed that there was a distinction between dying by one’s own hand and dying by cop, he didn’t think that they would agree with him.</p>
<p>In the end he simply stated that he had dared Winchester to shoot him in the back. That earned him more wide-eyed looks.</p>
<p>Cas shook his head. “Wow. You’ve had quite a morning. First you hold a US Marshal at gunpoint, and then a few minutes later, you dare him to shoot you. Looks like I picked you up just in time.”</p>
<p>“I just wanted to get away, Cas. I picked up that gun on impulse. But I never would have shot him. I’m not <em>crazy</em>.”</p>
<p>“Well, when you talk about daring him to shoot you, I have to wonder.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to die, Cas. Believe me.”</p>
<p>“Glad to hear it. Going out in a blaze of glory looks romantic in the movies, but it’s just a foolish waste of life. You’re not the Sundance Kid.” Cas’ voice took on a hard tone.</p>
<p>Sam was about to argue when Anna spoke up. “I don’t think it’s wise to make those kinds of dares, Sam. Marshal Winchester didn’t shoot you then, but you might not be so lucky next time.” Her voice was soft, more concerned than judgmental.</p>
<p>Sam relaxed slightly. “I wouldn’t have tried it with a different cop. I just felt sure that Winchester wouldn’t shoot me in the back. I can’t explain why.” He couldn’t explain without getting into his complicated erotic feelings about Winchester. And there was no way he was going to talk about those feelings with a priest and an ex-nun.</p>
<p>“Do you still have the gun?” Cas asked.</p>
<p>“It’s in my pocket.”</p>
<p>“Give it to me. I’ll dispose of it safely.”</p>
<p>“I’m happy to get rid of it. Just having it makes me nervous.”</p>
<p>Sam carefully pulled Winchester’s gun out of his pocket. The marshal’s comment about doing paperwork popped into his head. <em>I hope he doesn’t get in trouble for losing this.</em></p>
<p>Why the hell should he care about that?</p>
<p>Cas accepted the gun and put it in the pocket of his windbreaker as Anna looked on, her lips composed in a small moue of distaste.</p>
<p>Sam felt a pang of loss when the priest took the gun. He didn’t want to keep it – he had never fired a gun and didn’t want to learn how – but he felt strangely attached to it, because it was something that Winchester had touched.</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh jeez, you’ve got it bad.</em>
</p>
<p>“What are you going to do with it, Cas?”</p>
<p>The priest shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe I’ll throw it in the river. Or bury it in my yard. Nobody else will get their hands on it, I promise.”</p>
<p>“I still can’t believe I got away. If he didn’t fall down, I’d be in chains right now.” Sam shuddered at the thought.</p>
<p>Anna sipped some tea. “I can’t imagine how scared you must have been,” she said. Her expression was grave and sympathetic.</p>
<p>“Ever since I came home and found Chad’s body, I don’t think I’ve had a single day where I wasn’t scared.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re safe here. You can stay as long as you like.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Anna.”</p>
<p>“You won’t mind being alone all day? I leave for the animal shelter every morning at eight and I’m home by six. That’s a lot of time to fill up.”</p>
<p>“I got used to that when I was staying with Cas. I read, I watched TV. I even did laundry one day.”</p>
<p>“You did a great job with that, by the way,” said Cas.</p>
<p>Sam smiled and nodded his thanks.</p>
<p>“There’s a washer and dryer in the basement, so feel free to do a wash anytime you’re running low on clean clothes. As for entertainment, I have basic cable and a few DVDs. Help yourself. And you’re welcome to read anything from my library.”</p>
<p>Her eyes widened as something occurred to her. “Oh. I have a lot of true crime books and police procedurals. Given your situation, you might not enjoy reading them.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it. I’ll read anything.”</p>
<p>“I have all kinds of books. You’ll find something to pass the time. And of course, you’ll have Mooch to keep you company. He’s pretty low maintenance. I’ll feed him before I leave for work and you just need to feed him again around midafternoon. And make sure he has plenty of water, of course.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take good care of him. I’ll even clean the cat box.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “You really are helpful, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“Somebody once told me I was domestic.” He managed a small smile, but the memory of Jess made his heart hurt.</p>
<p>Cas glanced at his watch. “Whoa, look at the time. I’ve got to get back to Saint Swithin’s. Walk me to the door, Sam?”</p>
<p>“Sure.” Sam stood up.</p>
<p>The priest took one last sip of coffee and rose. “Anna, thanks again. I’ll call tomorrow to check in.” She nodded acknowledgement.</p>
<p>Cas and Sam walked to the front door. “I just have to fetch something from the car.” He went outside and came back a few moments later, holding a garbage bag.</p>
<p>“I gathered some more clothes for you. They should fit.”</p>
<p>Sam accepted the bag. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome. The phone charger is also in there. Remember, only use the phone to call me.”</p>
<p>“Got it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, and one more thing.” Cas reached into his other pocket and pulled out a roll of bills held together with a rubber band. “You left this at my house.”</p>
<p>“That’s the money I took from Newman. I forgot all about it. Why don’t you keep it, for my room and board?”</p>
<p>Cas shook his head. “I don’t need it, Sam. Vow of poverty, remember? And I took you in as an act of charity. I didn’t expect anything in return and I still don’t.” He held out the money, insistent. “You should take it. It’s a good idea to have cash on hand.”</p>
<p>“All right. Thanks.” He accepted the money and shoved it in his pocket. “I didn’t feel bad about taking his money at the time, but now I do. Newman was a bastard and he treated me like crap, but I didn’t want to see him dead.”</p>
<p>“Of course not. But you were desperate when you took the money, Sam. It’s no different from stealing food when you’re starving.”</p>
<p>Sam nodded. “I guess.”</p>
<p>“I’ll call Mara later and see if she has an update. If she does, I’ll let you know.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Cas.” He reached out and hugged the priest. Cas reciprocated the hug, patting Sam on the back a few times before releasing him.</p>
<p>“You’re in good hands, Sam. Try not to worry.”</p>
<p>“Not gonna lie, Cas – I’m a little freaked out after what happened earlier. I keep expecting Winchester to kick down the door.”</p>
<p>“Well, nobody followed us. And Anna won’t turn you in. He’d have to be psychic to find you here. Just lay low and trust in the Lord. Would a verse help settle your nerves?”</p>
<p>“I think it would.”</p>
<p>“Okay. Here’s a good one. <em>When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze</em>. Isaiah, chapter 43, verse 2.”</p>
<p>Sam exhaled. “Nice.”</p>
<p>“I see Cas is showing off his amazing memory.” They turned to see Anna, who was smiling at them.</p>
<p>Sam chuckled. “He’s got a knack for calming me down.”</p>
<p>“Any time,” said Cas. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get going before my secretary puts out an APB on me. I’ll be in touch, Sam.”</p>
<p>Sam and Anna said their goodbyes and the priest left.</p>
<p>“Let’s go sit and talk some more,” she said. He nodded and followed her back to the kitchen. They were alone in the house. Mooch had gone off somewhere.</p>
<p>Anna topped off his coffee cup and settled in with her iced tea.</p>
<p>Sam asked, “How long were you a nun?”</p>
<p>She smiled. “Almost ten years.”</p>
<p>“What made you leave?” He caught himself. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business. Forget I asked.” He crumpled his napkin, suddenly embarrassed.</p>
<p>“It’s okay, Sam. I don’t mind talking about it.” She sipped her iced tea. “I joined shortly after I graduated high school. Everything was great at first, but after a few years, I started getting restless. The life was becoming restrictive. I didn’t have a problem with church teachings. I still don’t. I guess I felt that I could do more good somewhere else. And then my dad got sick and needed someone to take care of him. So I left. There were no hard feelings. I’m still friends with a lot of the sisters.”</p>
<p>She sat back in her chair, a faraway look in her eyes. “Things just sort of fell into place after I left. I came home and took care of my dad until he passed away. He left me this house, along with a little bit of money. Not a fortune, but enough to give me some space so I could figure out what I wanted to do. Then I got a job at the animal shelter and I fell in love with it. Helping animals is very fulfilling. Sometimes I get to connect a dog or cat with a person who really needs a friend, and that just feels great. So, I have no regrets. I have a good life here.”</p>
<p>“How do you know Cas?”</p>
<p>“I met him while I was doing some work at Saint Swithin’s, and we became friends. We have similar views on many subjects, but we butt heads sometimes too. I don’t see eye to eye with him on the network, for example.”</p>
<p>“How come?”</p>
<p>“I respect his reasons for getting involved with it. He wants to help abused women. He has a very personal reason for doing it. I won’t go into it now, because it’s not my story to tell.”</p>
<p>She frowned, trying to put her thoughts into words. “I’m just not sure that the network is always the right approach. I don’t know, sometimes it seems like running away instead of fighting. Then again, it’s easy for me to talk. I’m not the one getting beat up by some psycho ex.”</p>
<p>She shrugged. “He and I agree on one thing: The system sucks.”</p>
<p>“I’m with you there.” Sam raised his cup and she clinked her bottle with it.</p>
<p>He took another sip of coffee and reflected on what she had just told him. <em>I have a good life here</em>, she’d said.</p>
<p><em>I hope my being here doesn't screw it up for you, Anna</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After injuring his knee in the fall, Dean spends the night in the hospital, where he tries to deal with the emotional fallout from his standoff with Sam. Upon his release, he rejoins Jody and Chief Ballard. Together, they try to figure out how Sam knew they were coming to raid the house, and in their search for answers they question someone they've previously spoken to.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again to Kassy Scarlett for continued beta help and support!</p>
<p>And thanks to all of you readers for your kudos and comments!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At first Dean thought he would only be in the hospital long enough to get X-rayed, examined, and supplied with painkillers. But Dr. Kramer didn’t feel comfortable discharging him until she was satisfied that he was sufficiently mobile. She insisted on keeping him there overnight, politely but firmly batting away Dean’s protests until he surrendered.</p>
<p>Despite that bit of unexpected news, his diagnosis was pretty good. If he had landed the wrong way, he could have shattered his kneecap. But X-rays revealed no broken bones, and other imaging tests showed that he hadn’t torn any cartilage. He had a sprained knee, as well as scattered bruises all over his body. There was also an ugly scrape on his right hand that only took a few minutes to clean and bandage. Dean decided that he had gotten off pretty lucky.</p>
<p>Examination and treatment took up most of the day, and then they admitted him. He was pleased to have a room to himself – he wasn’t feeling very sociable right now. Dinner arrived about a half hour after he had settled in. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which felt like a month ago. He lifted the dish’s cover, dreading what he might find. He’d had bad experiences with hospital food in the past.</p>
<p>It turned out to be baked chicken breast with rice and a side of limp green beans, a small roll with a pat of butter, a can of generic ginger ale, coffee, and a vanilla pudding cup for dessert. He would have preferred a juicy steak, French fries, a cold beer, and a thick slice of apple pie, but right now he was hungry enough to eat his own shoe. He fell to and cleaned his plate. The food was somewhat bland (the hospital dietician had apparently decided that he needed to limit his sodium intake), but it satisfied his hunger.</p>
<p>After dinner, he checked in with Jody and gave her a quick update on his situation. She filled him in on what happened after the ambulance took him. He wasn’t surprised to learn that Sam Wesson had eluded them. Maybe the kid really did have some magic power that protected him from capture.</p>
<p>After he hung up, he turned on the TV and channel surfed, but couldn’t concentrate on anything. Finally, he shut it off and turned out the light. But even though he was exhausted, sleep was elusive.</p>
<p>He kept replaying the day’s events, picking them apart and looking for things that he could have done differently. His fall was a stupid accident that could have happened to anyone. But maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all if he had waited for Jody to back him up instead of taking off after Sam all by himself. Maybe he’d still have his weapon.</p>
<p>The thought of his lost (no, <em>stolen</em>) gun made his gut churn. It was just a matter of time until Henriksen called him on the carpet for that. Dean wasn’t kidding when he told Sam about all the paperwork he’d have to do. And on top of that, the boss would probably make him see a shrink, to address any possible PTSD.</p>
<p>Dean hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He didn’t want to talk about what it was like to be on his knees, terrified and helpless, with his own gun pointing at him in the hands of a scared kid with nothing to lose. The standoff was the closest he’d ever come to dying on the job, and it had made him feel vulnerable in a way he’d never known before. As a law enforcement officer, he accepted the risk that came with hunting dangerous fugitives. Any given day could be his last. Wasn’t it enough that he understood this? Why should he have to talk to a stranger about it?</p>
<p>He just wanted to focus on catching Sam. He would deal with the emotional crap on his own time. And there was a lot of emotional crap to process. Dean knew he should be angry with Sam for holding him at gunpoint and escaping from him, but for some reason he couldn’t. Instead, he found himself thinking about the desperation in Sam’s kaleidoscope eyes, and the sadness in his voice.</p>
<p>
  <em>Why don’t you believe me when I say I’m innocent?</em>
</p>
<p>Sam had been reaching out to him, but in the heat of the moment, Dean had forgotten about trying to convince the kid that he was on his side. Instead, he’d said some clichéd bullshit about doing his job, and Sam had shut down. He should’ve urged Sam to surrender and trust the court to overturn his conviction. Then he remembered that the kid was willing to be shot in the back rather than go to prison. He was clearly not inclined to trust the system.</p>
<p>Maybe Dean should have posed a question of his own: <em>Why do you care if I believe you or not? </em>If they ever met again, he would make sure to ask. He wondered how Sam would answer.</p>
<p>And as long as he was asking questions, here was one for himself: <strong><em>Do</em></strong><em> I believe him?</em></p>
<p>He was still pondering that one when sleep finally claimed him.</p>
<p>*      *     *</p>
<p>The following morning, his knee felt much better, although his body was stiff and sore. He ate an uninspiring breakfast of lukewarm scrambled eggs, toast and coffee, then saw Dr. Kramer, who fitted him with a sturdy knee brace that gave him great support. Now that he could walk and stand without too much discomfort, she discharged him, with a seven day supply of naproxen and a stern warning not to overexert himself.</p>
<p>Dean called Jody and she told him to meet her at the police station. He booked an Uber and fifteen minutes later, he was at One Metro Plaza. He was in a pretty good mood.</p>
<p>When Dr. Kramer insisted on keeping him overnight, Dean had feared that surgery was next, followed by a lengthy stay in a rehab facility. It would have killed him to ride the bench while the hunt for Sam went on. He felt lucky to be mobile and back in the action. Things could have been much worse.</p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah, you could’ve been shot in the face.</em>
</p>
<p>Dean shuddered and entered the police station.</p>
<p>*      *     *</p>
<p>Jody looked up from the conference room table where she and Chief Ballard were sitting. Her face broke into a huge grin. “Dean! They let you out!”</p>
<p>He smiled back at her. “Hey, Jody. It only took ‘em one day to get sick of me.”</p>
<p>“You must’ve been on your best behavior. People usually get sick of you after about three hours.”</p>
<p>He laughed. “I missed you too, Mills.”</p>
<p>“How’s the knee?”</p>
<p>“A lot better. They gave me naproxen for the pain. And I have this brace.” He gestured at it. ”I can walk okay, but if I stand too long it starts hurting.”</p>
<p>“So no marathons for a while, huh?”</p>
<p>“Nope. Next time we find Wesson, <em>you </em>get to chase him.”</p>
<p>“Lovely. Speaking of our favorite fugitive, it looks like The Amazing Sam has pulled off another disappearing act.”</p>
<p>Chief Ballard said, “We’ve been trying to figure out where the hell he went. I don’t think he slipped through our roadblocks. We set them up pretty quick.”</p>
<p>“What about traffic cameras?”</p>
<p>Ballard frowned. “We checked the footage from the highway cameras. Zip. There are no cameras inside Pleasantville. We don’t have the money for them.”</p>
<p>Dean sighed. “Crap.”</p>
<p>She shrugged. “Blame the state. They’ve been stingy with the funds.”</p>
<p>“Well, if the news is anything to go by, I guess we know where the governor’s been spending that money.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started on him.”</p>
<p>“So as far as we can tell, Wesson is still in Pleasantville.”</p>
<p>“Looks like it.”</p>
<p>“All right.” He rubbed his forehead. “I have to caffeinate. You guys have a coffee maker?”</p>
<p>“In the break room down the hall, second door on your left. We have cookies too. Help yourself.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.” Dean walked out, returning a few minutes later with a cup of coffee and a big chocolate chip cookie. He took a seat at the conference table. “So, what do we have?”</p>
<p>“We heard from the crime scene unit,” said Ballard. “Wesson left some stuff behind at the house. Plastic bag with some clothes, food and water. Nothing incriminating. It doesn’t look like anything was stolen, although we’ll check with the realtor.”</p>
<p>“Any sign of forced entry?” asked Jody.</p>
<p>“No broken windows, no forced locks.”</p>
<p>Dean’s eyebrows rose. “How did he get in? Did he come down the chimney?”</p>
<p>Ballard smiled. “I called Larry Erhardt. All their keys are accounted for. But I can’t imagine how Wesson could’ve gotten his hands on a key, unless someone gave him one.”</p>
<p>“Now there’s a possibility.” Dean looked from her to Jody, frowning. “By the way, anyone else find it interesting that Wesson fled the house just as we rolled up?”</p>
<p>“Someone tipped him,” said Jody. “The same someone who let him in? Someone who knew we were coming.”</p>
<p>“There were three people in the realtor’s office. The receptionist, Erhardt and that realtor, what was her name?”</p>
<p>“Amelia Richardson.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Hold on,” said Ballard. “Why would one of them tip him? It makes no sense.”</p>
<p>Dean shrugged. “You know them better than we do. They give off any weird vibes lately?”</p>
<p>“Larry is the only one I know well. We’ve been friends for a couple of years. He’d never jeopardize his business by harboring a fugitive. Hell, he’s probably trying to figure out how he can leverage the fugitive angle to jack up the sale price.”</p>
<p>“What about Richardson? Or the receptionist?”</p>
<p>”I know Amelia to say <em>hi</em> to, but that’s about it. I don’t know the receptionist at all. I don’t even know her name.”</p>
<p>“I think we can rule out the receptionist,” said Jody. “She was deep into her Kindle the whole time we were there. She barely paid attention to us.”</p>
<p>“Which leaves Richardson,” said Dean. He thought about their encounter at Erhardt’s office. “She did seem nervous. I thought she was just freaked out by the situation.”</p>
<p>“So you think <em>Amelia</em> brought him there?”</p>
<p>“And told him to split when she knew we were coming.”</p>
<p>“I don’t buy it,” said Ballard. “Why would she help Wesson?”</p>
<p>Jody suggested, “Maybe they had a fling?”</p>
<p>“I think she’s married.”</p>
<p>“Wesson’s young and handsome,” said Dean. “It wouldn’t be the first time a fugitive charmed his way into a lonely woman’s, uh, heart.”</p>
<p>Ballard frowned. “That’s kind of a sexist assumption, isn’t it? <em>If</em> she helped him, what makes you think she did it willingly? This is a violent kid. He beat his roommate to death. He shoved a gun in your face. He could have threatened her with God knows what.”</p>
<p>Dean nodded, conceding her point. “I wasn’t trying to smear her character. But we have to consider all possibilities.”</p>
<p>Jody added, “Even the ones that aren’t very pleasant to think about.”</p>
<p>Ballard said, “I get that. I just don’t want to prejudge Amelia. We should at least talk to her first.”</p>
<p>“Okay, how about this?” said Dean. “We want to check if anything’s missing from the house, right? That’s a great excuse to talk to her. So we bring her to the house, ask her to give it the once-over. If she thinks that’s all we want, she might let down her guard. Then we squeeze her a little. See what happens.”</p>
<p>Ballard nodded. “Okay, I like that.” She consulted her watch, frowning. “Do you need me at the house? I have to catch up on some other business.”</p>
<p>“I think we’re good,” said Jody.</p>
<p>“I hope she’s not involved. I’d hate to see her screw up her life.”</p>
<p>Dean and Jody both nodded agreement.</p>
<p>*      *     *</p>
<p>Amelia Richardson was waiting for them on the front porch at 57 Mockingbird. “Thanks for meeting us, Mrs. Richardson,” said Dean.</p>
<p>“No problem.” Her face was pale and drawn, but she didn’t seem nervous. Without another word she unlocked the front door and they filed inside.</p>
<p>“We’d like you to take a look around and see if anything is missing or damaged,” said Jody.</p>
<p>“Sure. There isn’t a lot to steal. At least nothing that one person can easily carry away.” She sighed. “I hope there’s no damage. The insurance company would scream bloody murder.”</p>
<p>Richardson slowly walked through the first floor, looking around. Dean and Jody watched her as she checked the kitchen, living room and dining room. They finished up in the front hall. “Looks like everything is in order.”</p>
<p>“Would you mind looking upstairs?”</p>
<p>“Okay.” She headed upstairs, with Jody following. After about five minutes they returned.</p>
<p>Richardson said, “Everything is okay up there too.” She smiled a little. “He left the seat up in the bathroom.”</p>
<p>“Typical guy, right?” said Jody. Richardson chuckled and nodded.</p>
<p>Dean smiled. “Well, you’ve been really helpful. Can we ask one more favor?”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>“Come back to the station? We need you to sign some paperwork confirming the absence of damage. Just a formality.”</p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>*      *     *</p>
<p>They put Richardson in an interview room and then Dean said, “I’ll go get those forms.” He left the room, closed the door behind him, and took up a position in the hall outside, looking through the glass at Jody and Richardson.</p>
<p>Ballard said, “There aren’t any forms, are there?”</p>
<p>“Nope. I wanted Jody to talk to her one on one for now. She might open up if I’m not there. For some reason, people find me intimidating.”</p>
<p>She raised an eyebrow. “Can’t imagine why.”</p>
<p>Dean grinned at her. “I know, right? I’m Mister Rogers.”</p>
<p>He flicked a switch and their voices came through a speaker. Jody asked Richardson, “Would you like some water?”</p>
<p>“No thanks, I’m good.”</p>
<p>“Okay, Amelia. Is it okay if I call you Amelia?”</p>
<p>She shrugged again. “Sure.”</p>
<p>“Great. We really appreciate your help. I know this has been stressful for you. I mean, finding out that an escaped killer is in your town, in a house that you’re trying to sell?” Jody shook her head. “It would freak me out.”</p>
<p>Richardson offered a small smile.</p>
<p>“This fugitive is very crafty,” Jody went on. “And he’s dangerous, too. We almost caught him yesterday.”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. He only got away because he managed to grab my partner’s gun. Almost shot him in the face.”</p>
<p>“Oh my God.” Richardson’s eyes widened and a shudder rippled through her body.</p>
<p>“A man who’s that desperate will do almost anything, wouldn’t you say?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I guess so.”</p>
<p>Jody paused, letting her words sink in. “You know, Amelia, something just doesn’t feel right here. Maybe you can help me out?”</p>
<p>“Uh, okay.”</p>
<p>“See, we don’t know how he ended up in the house. No broken windows, no jimmied locks. No signs of forced entry. He didn’t just walk through the wall like Casper the Friendly Ghost. So how did he get in?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Why are you asking me?”</p>
<p>Jody looked her right in the eye. “I think you know why, Amelia.”</p>
<p>Richardson folded her hands tightly on the table in front of her. “N-no, I don’t.” She looked at the door. “Hey, where’s your partner with those forms? I have to get back to the office soon.”</p>
<p>“He’ll be here in a minute. You know how offices are. Things get misplaced all the time. But let’s get back to you, Amelia. I can see how nervous you are. I saw it yesterday morning. I think you have a secret, and it’s eating you up inside. Why don’t you get it off your chest? You’ll feel better.”</p>
<p>“There’s nothing to tell.” Richardson’s eyes darted around the room.</p>
<p>“Look, Amelia, here’s the deal. Sam Wesson didn’t break into that house. Either someone let him in, or he had a key. Your office is the only place that has access. So either you or Larry or someone else at your office got him into the house.”</p>
<p>“Or maybe he found the spare key I left in one of those fake rock thingies. In the front yard.” Richardson met Jody’s gaze directly. “I put it there just in case I lost my own copy.”</p>
<p>Jody frowned. “A key hider? We didn’t see one of those in the yard.”</p>
<p>“Well, he probably took it.”</p>
<p>Out in the hall, Dean muttered, “Shit. I didn’t think of a key hider.”</p>
<p>“Me neither,” Ballard agreed. “I didn’t know people still used them.”</p>
<p>“We can’t prove that there was a key hider in the yard, but we can’t prove there <em>wasn’t</em> one, either.”</p>
<p>“We could ask Larry. I don’t think he would have let her put it in the yard.”</p>
<p>“And she’ll probably say that she never told him.” Dean shook his head. “I gotta hand it to her. She’s sharp.”</p>
<p>His knee throbbed and he shifted his weight to his good leg. Maybe this was a good time for him to go in there and be the bad cop.</p>
<p>Jody said, “Well, that’s awfully convenient, Amelia.”</p>
<p>“Convenient or not, it’s true.”</p>
<p>Dean opened the door and strode into the room. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you, Amelia?”</p>
<p>She frowned as he sat down next to Jody. “I thought you had a form for me to fill out?”</p>
<p>“There is no form. Oops, my bad.”</p>
<p>She huffed and began to push back her chair. “Unbelievable!”</p>
<p>“Stay a moment, please. We have some more questions for you.”</p>
<p>“Am I under arrest?”</p>
<p>Dean gave her a hard look. “Should you be under arrest?”</p>
<p>That threw her. “Uh, no, of course not. I haven’t done anything wrong.”</p>
<p>“Then you won’t mind answering some more questions.”</p>
<p>“Jesus. What do you want now? I already explained to your partner how he could’ve gotten the key.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that was a good story. Hell, it’s probably even true. But it’s only half of the story. You’ve explained how he got into the house. Let’s talk about how he got <em>out</em>.”</p>
<p>She gave him a look that suggested he was dense. “Uh… through the door?”</p>
<p>“Don’t play cute. Sam Wesson ran from the house just as we pulled up. That timing is very suspicious. It suggests that someone tipped him off. Someone who knew we were coming. Do you see where I’m going with this, Amelia?”</p>
<p>She sat back in her chair. There was a film of sweat on her forehead.</p>
<p>Jody spoke up. “Amelia. Harboring a fugitive is a serious crime. That’s at least a year in jail. Plus fines.”</p>
<p>“Say goodbye to your realtor’s license,” Dean added.</p>
<p>“You can’t do that!”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s just for starters. I’ll bet the District Attorney can find plenty more to charge you with. So listen up. You do <em>not</em> want to play games with us. Especially me. I almost got shot yesterday and I’m not in the mood to mess around.”</p>
<p>She stared at him. Her mouth worked but she didn’t speak.</p>
<p>“Only three people knew we were coming. Larry, the receptionist, and you. We ruled out the other two. That leaves <em>you</em>, Amelia.” Jody spoke in a soft, reasonable tone.</p>
<p>“No. No way.”</p>
<p>“All right,” said Dean. “Let’s say there was a key hider, and he <em>just happened</em> to stumble over it. It’s a stretch, but I can accept it. But now you expect us to believe that he <em>just happened</em> to leave the house at the same time we showed up?”</p>
<p>“It’s a coincidence!”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe in coincidences. Wesson got into the house using a key that you left, and he ran from the house after we left your office. The common denominator is <em>you</em>. Why’d you tip him off, Amelia?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t!”</p>
<p>“So, what, he’s psychic? He had a vision that we were coming?” Dean fixed her with his best steely-eyed look. “Do we look stupid to you, Amelia?”</p>
<p>“No, no, of course not.”</p>
<p>“Good. Because we’re not stupid. We know when something is hinky.”</p>
<p>“I’ve done nothing wrong!”</p>
<p>Dean looked her over, appraising her. “He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Sam Wesson. Young, cute, nice hair. And those puppy dog eyes. You’re an attractive woman. Maybe you two made a connection?”</p>
<p>Her mouth gaped open. “Are you serious? I’m married!”</p>
<p>“You’re married, but you’re not dead. You still get urges, don’t you?”</p>
<p>She tried to push back her chair again. “Shut up! I would never betray my husband like that! You’re disgusting!”</p>
<p>“What’s disgusting is that you are trying to play us!”</p>
<p>Jody spoke up in a soft, calm voice, “Look, Amelia, if he coerced you in some way, we can help you. Did he threaten you? Did he… hurt you? You don’t have to be afraid of him. We can protect you. But you have to work with us.”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute!” Richardson’s voice was almost a shout. “Will you just listen to me for one god damn second?”</p>
<p>Dean sat back in his chair. “We’re all ears.”</p>
<p>She looked from Dean to Jody. Her eyes were wide and desperate. She was breathing hard. “I did <em>not</em> give him a key. I’ve never met him. I’ve never even spoken to him. I <em>swear</em>.”</p>
<p>Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything.</p>
<p>“And I did not tip him off. I tipped <em>you</em> off!”</p>
<p>Dean and Jody exchanged a surprised look. Jody said, “You called us?”</p>
<p>“Yes, damn it! I passed by the house and I saw him inside. I recognized him, from the news. But I was scared and I wasn’t sure what to do. I slept on it, and yesterday morning I knew I had to do something. So I called your tip line.” She gave Dean an earnest look. “I think you’re the one I spoke to.”</p>
<p>Dean frowned. “How do we know you’re telling the truth?”</p>
<p>Richardson ran her fingers through her hair. She appeared to think for a few seconds. “When I called, a woman answered the phone. She said her name was… Elaine. She connected me with you.”</p>
<p>She swallowed hard. “Look, maybe I waited too long to call. I’m sorry. But I was scared. You can’t fault me for being scared!”</p>
<p>Dean’s thoughts raced. Was this for real? How else would she know Elaine’s name unless she had called?</p>
<p>“Okay,” Jody said. “Suppose we believe you. That doesn’t explain how he knew we were coming.”</p>
<p>“I can’t help you with that. I have no idea.”</p>
<p>He and Jody exchanged looks. They both stood up. “Don’t go anywhere,” Dean said. They walked out of the room and shut the door, leaving Richardson slumped in her chair.</p>
<p>Out in the hall, Ballard said, “What the hell?”</p>
<p>“She got the name right,” said Jody. “Elaine was catching calls that morning.”</p>
<p>“I can’t swear to it, but her voice does sound familiar,” said Dean. “Shit, this really complicates things. I can see her helping Wesson get into the house and then having a change of heart. But tipping us off <em>and</em> telling him to haul ass? No. One or the other. Not both.”</p>
<p>“So what now? Can we arrest her?”</p>
<p>Jody shook her head. “We don’t have concrete proof that she and Wesson ever had any contact. I believe her when she says she never had a fling with him. She was really outraged when Dean brought it up. She’s either a great actress, or she was telling the truth.”</p>
<p>“I agree,” said Dean. “And Jody gave her a perfect opening to claim that he coerced her. She didn’t take it. The other stuff… I don’t know. Maybe she’s telling the truth and they never met. Maybe he did just happen to find the key hider. We can’t disprove it, anyway.”</p>
<p>“We need more if we’re going to arrest her,” said Jody. “But at least we can nail down her phone story. We’ll get a subpoena for her records and find out who she called, and when.”</p>
<p>Dean pulled out his phone. “I think we have sufficient grounds for the subpoena. I’ll get started on it.”</p>
<p>“So you’re cutting her loose?” asked Ballard.</p>
<p>“Yeah, for now. I’ll go tell her.” Jody went back into the office.</p>
<p>Richardson glared at her. “If you’re charging me with something, I want a lawyer.”</p>
<p>“You’re free to go, Amelia. We’ll subpoena your phone records and check your story about calling the tip line. And we’ll find out if you called anyone else, too.”</p>
<p>Richardson stood up and sighed. “The only other calls I made were to my office and my priest, Father Novak.”</p>
<p>“You called your priest? Why?”</p>
<p>Richardson gave her a sour look. “Why do you think? I had a rough couple of hours. After you guys left, I needed some comfort from my spiritual advisor.”</p>
<p>Jody nodded. “Fair enough. We’ll be in touch if we need anything.”</p>
<p>“I sincerely hope you don’t.” Richardson picked up her purse and stalked out of the interview room.</p>
<p>*      *     *</p>
<p>Amelia stopped for coffee before heading back to the office. Her head was throbbing. God, this ordeal was never going to end!</p>
<p>She sat at a small table in the back, sipping her coffee and thinking about the interrogation she had just endured. How the hell did she fall for the “<em>Come back to the station and fill out some forms</em>” line? How many times had she seen that ruse on <em>Law &amp; Order</em>?</p>
<p>That bullying sonofabitch Winchester, with his cold green eyes, and his lady partner, with her fake sympathy – they worked her over good, but they didn’t break her. In her time, she had been bullied by experts, and she always had her best ideas under pressure. For example, the key hider idea had popped into her brain like a hand yanking her out of quicksand. There was no key hider, but they couldn’t prove that. It felt like a brilliant move.</p>
<p>But she hadn’t expected them to accuse her of tipping off the kid. And to suggest that she would have a fling with the criminal! It was a nasty, dirty insinuation, designed to upset her. And it worked. She wanted to slap Winchester for even suggesting it.</p>
<p>Thank God she could prove that she had called their tip line. They wanted to look at her other phone calls? Fine. They would see that she had called Father Cas right after they left her office, and they would conclude that he was the one who’d alerted the kid. Let him deal with the heat.</p>
<p>Had Father Cas disposed of the spare key she’d given him? If they found it on him, her little song and dance about the key hider would be for nothing. What if they interrogated him? They had been rough on her, but they might go easier on him because he was a priest. She prayed that he would stand up to their questioning. He owed her that much.</p>
<p>Amelia finished her coffee and got up to leave. She couldn’t suppress a sharp ache of sorrow. Her friendship with Father Cas was over. She was probably finished with the network too. No matter how this turned out, her life would never be the same. As long as she didn’t end up in a prison cell, she was okay with that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mara and her investigator Ellen give Sam an update on their investigation, including a new theory about Chad's murder.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Once again I want to thank Kassy Scarlett for her amazing beta help and plot suggestions. Please check out her excellent stories.</p><p>I did some basic research on the mob, police corruption and investigation techniques. Any errors are my own.</p><p>Thank you for your kudos and wonderful comments. I'm so happy to have you along for the ride.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day after Sam arrived at Anna’s house, Cas called to let him know that Mara had an update on his case. “I told her to call my phone,” he said. “I didn’t think it was safe to give her the burner phone’s number. She’ll call this evening at eight-thirty. So I thought I’d invite myself over for dinner.”</p><p>“You’re in for a treat,” said Sam. “Anna’s teaching me how to make meatloaf.”</p><p>“Sounds delicious. Tell her I’m bringing dessert.”</p><p>“Great.”</p><p>Anna was happy to hear that they were having company that night. “Cas comes over for dinner two or three times a month. He always brings pastries from my favorite bakery. Don’t tell him, but that’s the only reason I keep inviting him back.”</p><p>She gave Sam a conspiratorial wink and he laughed. For a moment, he wondered if Cas and Anna were more than friends, then decided that it was none of his business.</p><p>That evening, after feeding Mooch, Anna took Sam through the process of making a meatloaf, step by step. He watched attentively as she placed the ground beef, breadcrumbs, eggs and seasonings in a big bowl.</p><p>“Okay, Sam. The best way to mix this is with your hands. My mom always said that your hands are your best tools. So go wash up and make sure they’re good and clean.”</p><p>After washing, Sam gingerly put his right hand into the bowl and, under Anna’s tutelage, began working the ingredients with his fingers. At first the cold, wet mixture grossed him out, but after a minute or so, he was surprised to find he’d gotten used to it.</p><p>“Hold onto the bowl with one hand and mix with the other. This way, you keep one hand clean and dry. Good! Keep working it until everything is just incorporated. Don’t overmix. If you handle the meat too much, it’ll get tough.”</p><p>“Okay, I promise I won’t handle my meat too much.” Sam snorted back a laugh.</p><p>Anna heaved a theatrical sigh. “I swear, every man is just a twelve year old boy at heart.”</p><p>He glanced at her and saw one corner of her mouth ticking up into a smile. He grinned and looked back at his work.</p><p>After the meatloaf was mixed, he carefully took it out of the bowl and placed it onto a baking sheet. Anna directed him to shape it into a loaf and when he was done, she put it in the oven while he washed his hands again.</p><p>“This is a good recipe to have in your back pocket,” she explained. “It’s easy to make and not too expensive. And you get to have meatloaf sandwiches the next day. That’s my favorite part.”</p><p>“My uncle always says that meatloaf sandwich is the food of the gods.”</p><p>Anna nodded. “He’s right.”</p><p>Cas arrived a few minutes after seven with a box of apple turnovers, just as Anna took the meatloaf and a pan of tater tots out of the oven. Sam mixed some greens and light vinaigrette in a big bowl, poured cups of Pepsi for everyone, and then they sat down to dinner. Cas said grace and they all dug in.</p><p>The meatloaf was delicious, and both Cas and Anna lauded Sam’s efforts. She said, “Stick with me, Sam. I’ll turn you into a gourmet chef in no time.”</p><p>Sam blushed and smiled at the praise. He’d forgotten how good it felt to receive a compliment.</p><p>Conversation was light, focusing on the latest events at Saint Swithin’s, and when that topic was exhausted, they moved on to their favorite TV shows. Sam was happy to talk about anything other than his situation. He relished the chance to feel normal.</p><p>After dinner, they had coffee and the turnovers Cas brought. By the time they were done, it was nearly eight-thirty. Sam stacked the dirty dishes in the sink to be washed later as Anna refilled their coffee cups.</p><p>They settled in at the table again and Anna said, “I’ll sit in on the call, but I won’t participate. If Mara hears my voice, she’ll figure out that you’re staying here. I know you want to keep her in the dark about your location.”</p><p>Sam and Cas nodded agreement and then Sam asked, “Do you guys think I should tell Mara about what happened with Winchester yesterday?”</p><p>Cas frowned, considering. “That’s a tough call. She won’t be happy to hear about you holding him at gunpoint. That’s a serious crime. They may press charges against you.”</p><p>“More charges. Sure, why not? At least they’ll be charging me with a crime I actually committed.” He frowned. “Honestly, I don’t think I have the energy to talk about it tonight. And I don’t want to tell her that I dared Winchester to shoot me. She’ll probably think I’m nuts. Maybe I could tell her another time?”</p><p>Anna sipped some coffee. “It’s up to you.”</p><p>Cas nodded. “Mara will represent you no matter what. But I think you shouldn’t wait too long to tell her.”</p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p>Just then Cas’ phone rang, putting an end to further discussion. It was exactly eight-thirty. Mara was nothing if not prompt.</p><p>Cas put the phone on speaker. After the greetings and general inquiries about well-being were out of the way, Mara got down to business. “Sam, my investigator Ellen is also on the line.”</p><p>“Hi, Sam.” The other woman’s voice was low-pitched, with a slight drawl.</p><p>“Hi, Ellen, nice to meet you.”</p><p>“Likewise. Mara’s brought me up to speed. I’ve been looking into our murder victim, especially the drug angle. I’m still friendly with a lot of my former colleagues in Narcotics, so I made a few calls. Never burn your bridges, Sam.” Ellen laughed and Sam smiled. He felt comfortable with her right away.</p><p>“So, get this. Two years ago, Chad Robinson was busted for possession of less than an ounce of cocaine. There was no intent to distribute. The state isn’t very keen to prosecute simple possession, so he was sent to treatment instead of jail.”</p><p>“It didn’t take,” Sam commented.</p><p>“Hm. Clearly. That was his only bust, but his name came up a year later in connection with an investigation into drug dealing at the university. A confidential informant dropped his name as a low level dealer, but there wasn’t enough probable cause to pick him up.”</p><p>“Chad? A dealer?”</p><p>Mara broke in. “You didn’t know, Sam?”</p><p>“No clue. We had different friends, different schedules. I had a heavy course load, plus a job, and I was with Jess whenever I could grab the time. So we didn’t interact too much.” Sam huffed a laugh. “Honestly, I’m surprised he had the energy for dealing. He always struck me as a slacker.”</p><p>He paused for a moment, considering. “But now that you mention it, certain things make sense. Like, he would go through cycles of having no money, and then suddenly he was flush. It was one of the things we argued about. His broke periods always seemed to coincide with the rent being due. Then he’d suddenly be able to pay. I just assumed that he asked his parents for the money.”</p><p>He groaned, suddenly furious with himself. “Shit. How did I not see it?”</p><p>Mara said, “It’s like you said, Sam. You were on different tracks. You didn’t hang out together. It sounds like you two weren’t tight.”</p><p>“No, we weren’t friends.”</p><p>“How did you become roommates?”</p><p>“I didn’t like dorm life. It was noisy, and there was never enough privacy. Jess was living with another girl in an off-campus apartment and she really liked it, so she said that I should try it. I saw a flyer on the bulletin board in the student union. <em>Roommate wanted</em>. I answered the ad and that’s how I met Chad. He seemed cool, kind of laid-back. The rent was reasonable. We each paid half and chipped in whatever we could for other expenses. Between what I made at my job and what Bobby sent me every month, I was able to cover it.”</p><p>“So things were okay at first?”</p><p>“Yeah, for the first few months, it was fine. We got along. Things went to shit after he got heavy into drugs. He started falling behind on the rent and stopped chipping in for other stuff. We argued. The prosecution made such a big deal about that, but it never got violent. It was just a lot of yelling. One time, the woman across the hall threatened to call the cops if we didn’t pipe down.”</p><p>“There’s no record of the police being called to your building.”</p><p>“And guess who didn’t bring up that little fact at my trial? Even though I begged him to?”</p><p>Mara made a disgusted <em>pfft</em> sound. “I don’t have to guess.”</p><p>Ellen said, “Take us up to the time before he died. What was going on?”</p><p>“He went downhill fast in the last month or so. He didn’t shower, he’d wear the same clothes for three or four days in a row. He reeked. He’d sit on the couch for hours playing Xbox. He didn’t go out much, but when he did, he came back wired and jumpy. I knew he was using, but I was so tired of arguing, I just went to my room and put my headphones on. I told myself that I was graduating in a few months, and then I’d never see him again.”</p><p>He sighed. “Maybe I should have confronted him. Suggested rehab, or something. None of his friends seemed to care. I should’ve stepped up. Maybe everything would have been different.”</p><p>“Sam. It’s not your fault.” Ellen’s voice was firm. “Suppose you did urge him to go to rehab. What would you have done if he blew you off?”</p><p>“I, uh, don’t know.”</p><p>“There was nothing you could have done. Remember, he’d already had one trip through rehab. He was an adult. Nobody could force him to go back if he didn’t want to. You can’t take the weight of the world on your shoulders.”</p><p>“I guess so.” Sam knew she was right, but he still felt guilty. He remembered how he’d focused like a laser on law school. Had he missed opportunities to make deeper connections with people – not just Chad, but with Brady and Sarah and the other people in his circle? He had only let Jess get close to him. He’d kept everyone else at arm’s length. Was that why they’d found it so easy to discard him after he was convicted?</p><p>He had dropped his guard with Anna and Cas and let them in. Now he was finally creating deep friendships that could last a lifetime. And at any moment he might be captured and lose them forever.</p><p>
  <em>How’s that for irony?</em>
</p><p>“Sam? You still with us?”</p><p>He shook himself. “Sorry, Ellen. Got lost in my thoughts.”</p><p>“Well, getting back to the drug issue. Any time I see a drug connection to a murder, it says one thing to me: <em>Mob</em>. The McLeod family controls all the drug traffic in the tri-state area. Narcotics has been trying to break their operation for years. We made a couple of dents, but that was it. We’d bust a low level guy and push him to flip on someone higher up. But we could only get so far up the ladder.”</p><p>“How come?”</p><p>“There’s a firewall between the street level operations and upper level management. Crowley, the guy at the top, is damn near untouchable. He presents himself as a legitimate businessman. He owns a couple of restaurants and bars, a nightclub, some high end clothing stores – all clean. He never handles the product himself, and the family launders the money until it’s untraceable. The lower level people are scared to death of him. If they step out of line, they get hurt.”</p><p>“Ellen, tell him about what happened to that independent dealer,” said Mara.</p><p>“Oh, yeah. This genius thought he’d try to freelance in McLeod territory. He ended up in the hospital with three broken ribs, a broken kneecap, and a concussion. The message was received loud and clear. Nobody else tried freelancing after that.”</p><p>Mara said, “Two Narco cops were busted for that, right? Rumor has it that the McLeods had them on the payroll.”</p><p>Ellen snorted. “Don’t remind me. The department is still recovering from that.”</p><p>“What happened?” asked Sam.</p><p>“These Narco cops were busted after a year-long investigation. Couple of glorified errand boys. They’d put a beatdown on dealers or rivals who needed to be taught a lesson.”</p><p>“Did they ever kill anyone?”</p><p>“Nothing that we could ever prove. Over the years there have been murders linked to the McLeods, but they’re very good at covering their tracks. So far, these Narco guys have been charged with multiple counts of assault, drug dealing and obstruction of justice. The D.A. was excited as hell when they got busted, because he thought he could get them to flip on Crowley, but so far, they won’t budge. And the lower level guys won’t turn because they’re too scared. One witness came down with a sudden case of amnesia. From what I’ve heard, the case is starting to fall apart.”</p><p>Sam felt a spark of excitement. “Hey, do you think one of those cops killed Chad?”</p><p>“Not these two. They were already in jail when Chad was killed.”</p><p>Sam crumpled a little. <em>Of course it couldn’t be that easy.</em></p><p>“But I’m pretty sure that the corruption didn’t stop with them. The McLeod organization is so big, and they’ve skated for so long – it makes sense that they have more cops on the payroll. Hell, maybe even a judge or two.”</p><p>“We don’t know that for sure,” Mara cautioned.</p><p>“True. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”</p><p>Another idea occurred to Sam. “What if one of their other goons started a beatdown on Chad and got carried away?”</p><p>“Doesn’t seem likely. Mob beatdowns are violent, but <em>disciplined</em>, you know? They’re meant to send a message. I think the goons are told exactly how much damage to inflict. I looked at the crime scene photos and read the autopsy report. Chad’s murder was the opposite of disciplined. The violence was over the top.”</p><p>Sam shuddered, remembering the scene. “Like something out of a horror movie,” he murmured.</p><p>“Exactly. It didn’t look like a mob hit at all. Hitmen don’t usually bludgeon their victims. A double tap to the head is the preferred M.O. Clean. Simple.”</p><p>“It’s as if Chad’s killer was trying to make it look as <em>un</em>-moblike as possible,” Mara added.</p><p>“Which brings us back to you, Sam,” said Ellen. “If we accept the premise that you were framed, then someone went to a lot of trouble to set you up. Why you?”</p><p>“That’s what I can’t figure out!” Sam burst out. “I’ve never done drugs, I’ve never committed a crime. The closest I’ve ever come to the mob is watching <em>Goodfellas</em>.”</p><p>“What about your uncle? He’s in the auto body business. Did anyone ever try to shake him down, or involve him in something illegal? Like selling stolen auto parts or doing some chop shop work?”</p><p>“No, Bobby would’ve told me if he was being hassled.”</p><p>Mara said, “I think it’s a stretch, Ellen. I’ve spoken at length with Mr. Singer about who might have set Sam up. I asked him about the mob angle and he insisted that nobody has ever tried to shake him down.”</p><p>“He wouldn’t have kept quiet about something like that if it would help my case,” said Sam.</p><p>“Right. I think the mob angle is a nonstarter. If they wanted to pressure your uncle, they would have come after him or you directly. They wouldn’t have bothered with Chad. As for being involved with the mob, Mr. Singer insisted that his business was, quote, ‘so clean it squeaked’. He wasn’t mixed up in anything shady.”</p><p>“Of course he wasn’t!” Sam’s hands clenched into fists.</p><p>“Easy, Sam,” said Ellen. “We’re just testing theories. But I think Mara’s right. It doesn’t sound like they targeted you to get at your uncle. Which brings us back to the drug angle. I’ll keep digging. If I turn over enough rocks, <em>something</em> will come out.”</p><p>“Okay, Ellen. Thanks.”</p><p>“You bet. I’m gonna sign off now, Sam. You rest easy. I’m in this for the long haul.”</p><p>They said their goodnights and then Mara came back on the line. “I know that wasn’t very encouraging, Sam, but we’ve just gotten started. Ellen meant what she said. She doesn’t quit.”</p><p>“I’m glad to hear that.”</p><p>“Next on the agenda. I talked to the library staff. I had mixed results. Nobody remembered seeing you that night. But I didn’t get to everyone. Does the name Lenore Peterson ring a bell?”</p><p>“Yes, I remember her. I liked her. Very nice, very helpful. Any time I had a question about a specific book, she always had an answer for me.”</p><p>“She was out sick with the flu. I put in a couple of calls to her, but so far she hasn’t gotten back to me.”</p><p>“I can’t remember if I talked to her that night.”</p><p>“She still might’ve seen you. I’m going to keep after her. She’s probably not answering her phone because she’s sick.”</p><p>“Okay, Mara. Thanks.”</p><p>“No problem. And now, one last item on the agenda. I’ve started checking into your former attorney, Mr. Shurley.”</p><p>“Anything promising?”</p><p>“Shurley has a clean record with the state bar association. No violations. I talked to some colleagues of mine, tried to get a feel for the man. Based on what I’ve heard so far, he has a reputation for being a pretty average attorney. He pleads out a high percentage of cases. But I wouldn’t read too much into that if I were you. Every case is different, and sometimes pleading out is what’s best for the client.”</p><p>“Or maybe he’s just lazy,” said Sam.</p><p>“Always a possibility. One thing struck me as odd. Most lawyers inspire strong emotions. You either love them or hate them. But Shurley doesn’t seem to move people in either direction. The overall reaction seems to be ‘<em>meh’</em>. Not great, not terrible. One colleague of mine described him as ‘adequate’. Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But I’ve heard worse, to be honest. Not everyone with a law degree is Clarence Darrow.”</p><p>“Or you.”</p><p>“Oh, stop, you’re making me blush.” Mara chuckled. “Anyway, I’m still going through the trial transcript, looking for any blatant errors he might have made. And I will continue to make discreet inquiries about him. I was wondering, how did you end up with him as your attorney?”</p><p>Sam sat back in his chair, letting the memories wash over him. “When Morgan was going hard at me in the interrogation room, I finally wised up and asked for a lawyer. They shut down the questioning and arrested me. I didn’t have a lawyer, so I called Bobby and he said he’d try to find one for me. And the next day, Shurley came to see me at the jail. I asked him if Bobby had called him and he said no. He heard about my arrest on the news and offered his services.” Sam laughed but there was no humor in it. “I thought it was a miracle.”</p><p>“Huh. Now that’s interesting. He heard about your arrest on TV?”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s what he said.”</p><p>“Very convenient. I’d love to compare the stories about your arrest with the date and time he met you at the jail. I want to know if he really could have learned about your situation from the news like he said.”</p><p>Sam exchanged puzzled looks with Cas and Anna. “Wait, what are you saying?”</p><p>“I’m wondering if Shurley knew ahead of time that you were going to be arrested. Then he showed up at the jail to play your savior. Tiny told you he was a mob fixer, right?”</p><p>“I thought he meant that they had Shurley fix the case once the trial was underway.” Sam raked his fingers through his hair. His heart raced and he suddenly felt cold all over. “But – but you’re thinking that he was in on the frame from the jump?”</p><p>“It’s just a theory. I don’t know if I can prove it. But it’s just too convenient.”</p><p>“Yeah. It is. Shit.” His throat felt dry. He grabbed his cup and gulped a tepid mouthful of coffee. “I never had a chance, did I?”</p><p>He blinked hard, trying to hold back tears. “I should’ve run the second I found Chad’s body.” Anna reached across the table and squeezed his arm. She gave him a kind smile.</p><p>“Listen to me, Sam,” said Mara. “You have a chance now, because you have me. You have Ellen. We’re not giving up. We’re going to figure it out. You just need to stay strong.”</p><p>She paused. “Remember when I asked you to consider turning yourself in?”</p><p>“I remember.”</p><p>“Well, as of right now, forget I said it. Maybe Ellen’s right and Metro PD hasn’t cleaned out all the rot. If that’s true, then you can’t be sure who’s clean and who’s corrupt. Keep your head down. Cas will help you – right, Cas?”</p><p>The priest nodded and gave Sam a thumbs up. “I’m on it, Mara.”</p><p>“Okay. I’m going to sign off too now. The next couple of days will be busy. I’m going to keep trying to reach Lenore. I’ll see what else I can learn about the esteemed Mr. Shurley, and Ellen will continue her inquiries. Maybe I’ll ask her to take a peek at him, see what she can turn up. I’ll check in again when I have more news. And if you need anything, or if you remember anything that can help, give me a call. Okay?”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Goodnight, Sam. Stay safe.”</p><p>“I will, Mara. Thank you.”</p><p>She hung up and Sam slumped in his chair, letting out a long exhale as he rubbed his eyes. Cas waited a couple of moments and said, “Sam, she’s right. You’re not alone.”</p><p>He managed a small smile. “I know.”</p><p>“Cas and I are on your side,” said Anna. “Mooch too.” She looked around the kitchen. “Guess he’s sleeping right now, but I’m sure I can speak for him.”</p><p>Sam laughed. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”</p><p>*                 *                 *</p><p>Cas left soon after that, and after agreeing to put off doing the dishes until the next day, Sam and Anna watched TV in the living room. Sam couldn’t concentrate because his mind kept going back to the conversation with Mara and Ellen. Chad, the mob, crooked cops, Shurley – it was too much to process. After an hour, he decided that he needed some time alone to think, so he said goodnight to Anna and went upstairs to the guest bedroom.</p><p>Now he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He thought about Mara telling him to stay off the cops’ radar. It made sense, in light of the evening’s revelations. How widespread was the corruption? Was the judge who presided over his trial also crooked? What about Morgan and the other cops who had arrested him?</p><p>And what about Winchester? Was he corrupt too? Was that why he had blown off Sam’s protestation of innocence?</p><p>Something tightened painfully in Sam’s chest. He could accept Winchester hunting him out of a sense of duty. But he couldn’t bear it if the marshal turned out to be another mob errand boy. Either way, Winchester was a threat to Sam’s freedom, but Sam desperately wanted him to be a good guy. But why did that matter?</p><p>
  <em>Because if he’s a good guy, I can let myself imagine… being with him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh God, I’m in so much trouble.</em>
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